She didn't come here by accident.
She came here on purpose.
That knowledge burns through me like a lit fuse.
I move lower.
My mouth finds her collarbone, the hollow at the base of her throat, the swell of her breast.
I take my time because I have waited ten years for this and I am not going to rush it.
My tongue circles her nipple and she gasps—sharp, surprised, like she forgot what this feels like—and her hand flies to the back of my head and grips my hair.
"Coin—"
I take her nipple in my mouth and suck, and the sound she makes is the most beautiful thing I've ever heard.
Her back arches off the bed and her hips push up against mine. I can feel her warmth through two layers of denim, and it's making me so hard I can barely think.
I give her other breast the same attention—slow, thorough, worshipping—while my hand slides down her stomach, over the curve of her hip, to the button of her jeans.
I pop it one-handed.
She lifts her hips without being asked and I pull them down—jeans and underwear together, because I'm done with barriers.
She's bare underneath me. All of her.
Curves and soft skin and the faint tremble of a woman who hasn't been touched in a long time by someone who means it.
I kneel between her thighs and look at her.
She's watching me with those dark eyes, her chest heaving, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. She's nervous.
I can see it—the slight tension in her thighs, the way her hands grip the sheets.
"I've got you," I say again. And I mean it the same way I meant it in the hallway—completely, absolutely, with everything I have.
I lower my mouth to her.
The first touch of my tongue pulls a sound out of her that I want to record and play on repeat for the rest of my life.
Her thighs tense around my head and her hand finds my hair again and I learn her—slowly, methodically, the way I learn everything.
What makes her gasp. What makes her grip harder. What makes her hips roll against my mouth like she's lost control of her own body.
I'm a patient man. I haven't been touched like this in years. I can be patient here too—building her up with long, slow strokes, circling the spot that makes her breathing go ragged, pulling back just enough to make her whimper before I give it back.
"Coin, please—oh God, please?—"
I slide two fingers inside her while my mouth works and she comes apart.
Not quietly.
She cries out—my name, or something close to it, broken into syllables that don't make sense—and her whole body bows off the bed.
Her thighs clamp around my head and I feel her pulse around my fingers and I don't stop.
I keep going, drawing it out, my tongue still moving, my fingers curling, until she's shaking and gasping and pushing at my shoulders because it's too much.
