His hands slide down from my face to my waist, pulling me away from the wall and against his body in one smooth movement that makes me gasp into his mouth. I can feel him already hardening against my hip, can feel the tension building in his shoulders as he holds himself back from taking what he wants.
"Bedroom," I breathe against his lips, already tugging at his shirt.
"Here," he counters, his hands sliding under my tank top to find bare skin. "Can't wait. Need you now."
We strip each other with fumbling hands that are made clumsy by urgency and four months of not touching. My tank top hits the floor. His shirt follows. My sleep shorts. His jeans, which take longer because I have to help him balance while he kicks them off, because his legs are still recovering and some positions are harder than others.
But we manage. We always manage.
He backs me toward the couch and I go willingly, settling onto the grubby cushions that suddenly don't seem so terrible when Xavier is lowering himself over me with heat in his eyes and reverence in the way his hands map my body like he's relearning territory he thought he'd lost access to forever.
"I missed you," he says quietly, his lips trailing kisses down my neck to my collarbone, his hands sliding up my ribcage to cup my breasts with a gentleness that makes tears prick at my eyes again. "Every single day. Every hour. I missed you so much it felt like dying."
"I'm here," I whisper, my own hands exploring the planes of his back, relearning the topography of scars and muscle and warm skin. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
He kisses me again—deeper this time, his tongue sweeping into my mouth with an intensity that steals my breath—while his hand slides down between us to find me wet and ready and aching for him in a way that has nothing to do with physical need and everything to do with the soul-deep loneliness of being without him.
"You're so beautiful," he murmurs against my lips, his fingers sliding through my folds with practiced precision, finding my clit and circling it with just the right pressure to make my hipsbuck involuntarily. "So perfect. How did I ever think I could live without this? Without you?"
I don't have an answer that isn't a sob, so I just kiss him harder, pour everything I'm feeling into the press of my lips against his while his fingers work magic between my legs, building pleasure that coils hot and tight in my core.
But I don't want to come like this. Don't want his fingers, as talented as they are. I want him. All of him. The connection that comes from being joined together in the most fundamental way possible.
"Xavier," I gasp, my hand reaching down to wrap around his cock, feeling the hard heat of him pulse in my palm. "Please. I need?—"
"I know." He positions himself at my entrance, the broad head of his cock pressing against me in a way that makes anticipation curl in my stomach. "I need it too. Need to be inside you. Need to feel you around me."
He pushes in slowly—so slowly—giving me time to adjust to the stretch and the fullness and the overwhelming rightness of having him here, with me, in me. His eyes never leave mine as he sinks deeper, as he fills me inch by careful inch until he's buried completely and we're both breathing hard with the intensity of it.
"Fuck," he breathes, his forehead dropping to rest against mine. "You feel—God, Valentina, you feel like home."
Home. The word cracks something open in my chest that's been sealed since the day he kicked me out. I wrap my legs around his waist, my heels digging into the small of his back to hold him deep inside me where he belongs.
"Move," I whisper. "Please, Xavier. I need?—"
He moves.
Not fast. Not rough. Slow and sweet and tender in a way that makes tears stream down my temples to disappear into my hair. Each thrust is deliberate, purposeful, designed not just to build pleasure but to reconnect something that was severed, to rebuild something that was broken.
His hand finds mine, fingers lacing together and pressing into the couch cushion above my head while his other arm braces his weight to keep from crushing me. Our eyes stay locked, neither of us willing to look away, both of us needing to see the other as we chase something that's more than just physical release.
"I love you," he says with each thrust, the words falling from his lips like a prayer, like a promise, like something he needs me to believe down to my bones. "I love you. I love you. I'm sorry I made you think I didn't. I'm sorry I hurt you. I love you."
"I love you too," I manage through the tears and the building pleasure and the overwhelming emotion of having him back, having this back. "I'm sorry too. For lying. For not trusting you with the truth. For?—"
"Shh." He kisses me to stop the apology, his hips never ceasing their slow, deep rhythm. "We both fucked up. We both have things to forgive. But we're here now. Together. That's what matters."
The pleasure builds with agonizing slowness, each stroke taking me higher without quite pushing me over the edge. It's sweet torture, the kind that makes you want to beg for release while simultaneously never wanting it to end because the journey feels too good to rush.
"Xavier," I gasp when I'm finally, desperately close, when one more thrust will send me flying apart. "I'm going to?—"
"I know. Me too." His rhythm falters slightly, becomes less controlled. "Come with me, baby. Let me feel it."
He reaches between us to find my clit again, his fingers circling with perfect pressure while his cock hits deep inside me, and suddenly I'm there—flying apart with a cry that he swallows with his mouth, my body clenching around him rhythmically as waves of pleasure crash over me.
"Fuck, Valentina," he groans, and then he's coming too, his cock pulsing inside me as he spills himself deep, his whole body shuddering with the force of his release.
We stay locked together for a long moment, both of us breathing hard, both of us trembling with the aftershocks. His weight settles more fully on top of me and I welcome it, wrapping my arms around him to hold him close while our hearts gradually slow from their racing pace.
