The last thread of control snaps.
I move again, backing her toward the bed, my mouth never leaving hers, my hands never stopping, every touch turning sharper, more urgent.
More needy.
Because this isn’t slow.
This isn’t careful.
This is three years of want crashing down all at once.
My knee hits the edge of the mattress, and I guide her down with me, hovering over her for a second, taking her in—and fuck, my heart squeezes so damn tight I think I might actually die.
She’s so sexy.
Her smooth, flushed skin.
Long, damp hair.
That lust-glazed look in her eyes.
She looks like mine, all right.
“Tell me to stop,” I say again, voice lower now, rougher, like it costs me something to offer it.
Because this is the last chance.
The last line.
And we both know it.
Her gaze softens.
Darkens.
“Don’t,” she whispers.
That’s it.
Game over.
I drop my head, capturing her mouth again as my hands begin to explore with intent—lifting the shirt out of the way, finding her panties with my fingers.
I tear at them.
And I hiss when I feel her fingers working the button and zipper on my too-tight blue jeans.
Esme frees my cock, and she strokes me—once, then twice, before rubbing my tip along her dripping slit.
“You’re fucking soaked for me, aren’t you, Sweetheart?” I groan as I flex my hips, filling her with one deep thrust.
Fuck. She’s tight.
But I don’t want to think about that.
I don’t want to think about how many men she’s had since leaving me, thinking we were divorced.
I don’t let my mind go there.
