"You," I say. "Without the guilt. Without the context. Just you."
He exhales like a man who's been holding his breath since the farmhouse. His hand comes up and covers mine, and then he's pulling me in, slowly this time, giving me every opportunity to change my mind, and when his mouth finds mine it's different from the kitchen. It's slower and deeper, the kiss of a man who is not taking but receiving.
At first.
I pull his shirt over his head and press my mouth to the dark ink on his collarbone, the script along his ribs, the hard planes of muscle beneath scarred and tattooed skin. His fingers thread through my hair and his breathing goes ragged as my lips travel south, across his stomach, following the trail of dark hair that disappears into his waistband.
I drop to my knees.
He makes a sound like I've punched him. His hand tightens in my hair, not pulling but holding, as I work his sweats and briefs down his hips and he kicks them off. His cock springs free, thick and hard and already leaking at the tip, and I wrap my hand around the base and look up at him.
He's staring down at me with an expression I've never seen on his face before, not the controlled blankness or the dark intensity but something stripped bare and almost frightened, the look of a man watching something he's wanted so badly he didn't dare imagine it.
"You don't have to..." he starts again.
I take him into my mouth and the sentence dies.
The sound he makes, low and guttural, rumbles through his body and into mine. I take him deep, relaxing my throat, and his hips jerk involuntarily before he catches himself. His hand in my hair tightens and loosens and tightens again, the war between restraint and need playing out in his fingers.
I pull back slowly, dragging my lips along his shaft, tonguing the sensitive ridge beneath the head, and then take him again, deeper. His thighs are trembling. The tendons in his forearms stand out in sharp relief as he grips the windowsill behind him with his free hand, his knuckles white.
"Dios mío, Sofia." His voice is shredded. "Your mouth. Fuck, your mouth is incredible."
I hollow my cheeks and suck hard, my hand working what I can't reach, and he groans loud enough that I'd worry about the agents down the hall if I cared about anything right now besides the taste of him on my tongue and the sound of a dangerous man coming apart because of me. I find a rhythm that makes his breath stutter, alternating between long slow strokes and tight suction on the head, and his hand in my hair goes from holding to guiding, tilting my head to the angle that makes him curse in Spanish.
"Stop." He pulls me off gently but firmly. His cock is slick with my saliva, flushed dark, twitching. "If you keep going, I'll come in your mouth, and I need to be inside you."
He pulls me to my feet and kisses me, deep and filthy, tasting himself on my tongue, and the possessiveness that was simmering beneath his restraint breaks the surface. He yanks the borrowed sweatshirt over my head, unclasps my bra with one hand, and fills his palms with my breasts, rough and kneading, his thumbs rolling my nipples until I whimper.
"On the bed," he says. It's not a request. The man from the kitchen is back, and the tentative patience he was showing a minute ago has burned away.
"I thought I was in charge tonight."
"You were." He hooks his fingers in the waistband of my sweats and drags them down along with my underwear, his knuckles trailing fire down my thighs. "You were in charge andyou got on your knees for me and now I need to fuck you so hard you forget we're in a federal safe house."
He lifts me and puts me on the bed, and then his body is covering mine, all heat and weight and hard muscle, and his mouth is on my neck and his hand is between my thighs, two fingers pushing into my pussy without preamble.
I'm already soaked, have been since I dropped to my knees, since before that, since I knocked on his door knowing exactly where the night was going. His fingers curl inside me and I arch off the mattress, grabbing his wrist not to pull him away but to hold him there.
"So wet," he murmurs against my throat. "So fucking wet for me. Were you this wet on the kitchen floor?"
"You know I was."
"I know you were. I know you came so hard on my cock that you screamed." He adds a third finger and stretches me, his thumb finding my clit with the same accuracy he brings to everything. "And then you cried. And I hated myself. But right now, in this room, with that door unlocked, you're going to come on my fingers and then on my cock and you're not going to cry. You're going to look at me and know that you chose this."
I'm already close, his fingers working me with relentless precision, his thumb circling my clit in tight strokes that send lightning through my pelvis. He lowers his mouth to my breast and sucks my nipple hard, and the dual sensation breaks me open. I come on his hand with a sharp cry, clenching around his fingers, my hips grinding against his palm as the orgasm rips through me.
He doesn't give me time to recover. He pulls his fingers out, slick with my arousal, and positions himself between my thighs. The head of his cock presses against my entrance, hot and thick, and he pushes in with one deep stroke that fills me completely and punches the air from my lungs.
"Fuck," I gasp. My nails dig into his back. He's so deep I feel him everywhere.
"You feel incredible." He pulls back and drives in again, harder. "Every time. Like you were made for my cock."
He sets a punishing pace, his hips snapping forward with controlled violence, each thrust bottoming out inside me. The bed frame hits the wall and neither of us cares. I wrap my legs around his waist and take everything he gives me, my pussy clenching around him on every stroke, the wet sounds of our bodies filling the room.
He shifts his weight to one arm and hooks my leg over his shoulder with the other, folding me nearly in half, and the new angle sends him impossibly deeper. I scream into the pillow and he pulls it away.
"No. I want to hear you."
