"The storm is still going," I say.
"Yes." His mouth is at my throat.
"I'm noting that. For the record."
He pulls back to look at me, a look that says he's not sure why I'm noting it. I grab his shirt and pull him back.
His hands are at my waist and then my hips and he's between my knees. I get his jacket off and start on his shirt buttons, and he lets me, watching my hands with that particular attention he gives everything I do, like I'm worth it even when I'm just unbuttoning a shirt.
"You've been alone in a storm for six hours."
"I wasn't scared."
"I know." He presses his forehead to mine. "Neither was I. Doesn't mean it wasn't a hard day."
I get his shirt open. His mouth finds my collarbone, and I stop trying to say anything useful.
He lifts me off the table. I wrap my legs around him, and he carries me to the bedroom and puts me down on the bed and leans over me, and I look up at him — his shirt hanging open, his hair a mess from my hands, that careful, controlled quiet he wears all day completely stripped away.
I reach up and push the shirt off his shoulders. He lets me look. He's broad through the chest, a little scarred, the kind of body that comes from actual work rather than a gym, and he watches me look at him with dark, patient eyes like he has nowhere else to be.
"Still good?" he asks.
"Ross." I pull him down. "Yes."
I smile.
His hands move down my sides and find the hem of my shirt, and pull it over my head. He sits back on his heels and looks at me the same way I just looked at him. His eyes move down my body and back up, and he reaches out and unclasps my bra and drops it off the side of the bed.
"You've been thinking about it since last time," he says.
"I told you that."
"Tell me what you thought about."
Heat moves through me. "You know what I thought about."
"Tell me anyway."
So I tell him. Specifically. His expression doesn't change much, but his hands do, moving to my waist, my hips, gripping harder.
I reach for his belt and work it open while he gets me out of my jeans, and then I get his the rest of the way off and wrap my hand around his cock and stroke once, slow, watching his face. His breath comes out controlled and deliberate, like he's deciding to keep it that way.
"Rougher than last time," I say. Not a question.
"If you want."
"I want."
He gets his hand between my thighs, and I'm already wet.
Ross makes a low sound and strokes me slowly, watching my face the way he watches everything. He stays on my clit, steady, not varying it, not rushing, and I grab the sheets and my hips roll against his hand, and he follows every movement exactly.
My thighs start shaking. I stop being able to stay quiet. "Now," I say. "Please."
He looks at me for one more second like he's enjoying me beg, and then he moves.
He pushes inside me in one motion, and I make a sound that probably carries through the old walls of the house. The stretch makes me gasp, and he stills, just for a moment, watching my face.
