They stayed like that for a long moment, breathing each other in, two people who had lost too much time finally allowing themselves to feel what they had always been wanting.
And whatever tomorrow brought, whatever threats, danger, whatever unfinished business, tonight she would allow herself to believe in this, to believe in Bobby Jenkins. In the two of them.
“You still look at me like… you know,” she said, voice low.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re trying to memorize me before I disappear again. You’ve done it since that first conversation in the conference room.”
He swallowed. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”
She took his hand in hers and pulled him down onto her bed, not letting the chance slip away from her. Turning, she reached over, fingers brushing the stubble along his jaw, then sliding into his hair. “I’ve waited a long time to be like this with you again.”
“Same,” he told her, his breath growing heavier.
She pulled him closer, harder this time, less careful and more urgent. No preamble. Just mouths opening, tongues sliding, hands already moving. His palms found the small of her back while hers pushed under his shirt, raking her nails along his skin.
She broke the kiss long enough to pull his shirt over his head. The motion mussed his hair worse, and she smiled at that, quick and wicked, then dragged her nails lightly down his chest, watching the way his breath hitched.
“You always were sensitive here,” she murmured, thumb brushing over one nipple. He hissed through his teeth. She leaned in and replaced her thumb with her mouth—wet heat, a slow swirl of her tongue—and his hands tightened on her hips like he needed an anchor.
“Delaney—”
“Shh.” She stood, reached behind herself, and unzipped her pants in one smooth motion. She slid it down her body and let it pool at her feet. Next went her top, then her black lace bra, and matching panties. She stepped out of the pile of clothes and closer to him.
Bobby’s throat worked. “Jesus.”
Her laugh was soft and a little shaky. “You’re allowed to touch me, you know.”
He did—slow at first, reverent, palms skating up her ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts through lace. He cupped her bare breasts, felt the way her nipples tightenedunder his thumbs. She made a small, broken sound that went straight to his cock.
They tumbled onto the bed together, her pulling him down, him catching himself so he didn’t crush her. Legs tangled. Her hands were everywhere—in his hair, down his back, fumbling at his belt. He helped her, kicking off his pants and boxers, and then there was only skin on skin, the shocking heat of her against him.
She rolled them so she was on top, straddling his hips. His erection lay heavy against her stomach; she wrapped her fingers around him, stroking once, twice, watching his face the whole time. His head tipped back, throat working.
“Condom?” she asked, voice rough.
“Wallet. In my pants.”
She stretched across him, her breasts brushing his chest, her hair falling in a curtain around them, and came back with the foil packet. She tore it open with her teeth and then rolled it down his hardness with steady hands. Then she rose on her knees, lined him up, and eased down onto his shaft.
They both froze when he was fully inside her, eyes locked on each other, her palms on his chest.
Fifteen years of absence poured into that single moment: the stretch, the heat, the way she clenched around him like her body remembered exactly how he felt. He gripped the back of her thighs hard enough to leave marks. Her eyes fluttered shut, lips parted on a silent gasp.
“God,” she whispered. “You feel?—”
“Same,” he managed. “Exactly the same.”
She started to move, small rolls of her hips at first, testing, then longer strokes. He thrust up to meet her, finding the rhythm they used to know by heart. The bed creaked under them. Neon light from the window slid across her skin, turning sweat to glitter.
She braced herself on his chest as he slid his hands up to cup her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until she moaned—loud, unselfconscious. She leaned down, kissed him messily and open-mouthed while she rode him harder, faster. He wrapped an arm around her waist, flipped them so she was under him, legs hooked over his hips.
Now he could drive deeper, angle just right. She arched, nails raking down his back, urging him on. “Harder,” she gasped. “Please—Bobby?—”
He gave it to her—hard, steady, relentless—watching her face the whole time: the way her brows drew together, the way her mouth fell open, and how she shook as her body took over.
She came first, a sudden, fierce pulsing of her inner walls as a broken cry tore out of her throat. He followed seconds later, hips stuttering, burying himself as deep as he could while the pleasure ripped through him in long, shattering waves.
