"Yes." My voice came out wrecked. "Don't stop."
He moved, slow and deep, and I made a sound against his shoulder that I felt no need to apologize for.
He watched my face the whole time…watched me moan, watched me gasp, watched my brow furrow.
“You feel—” he paused, his eyes closing. “God, Willa. You feel so fucking good.”
I arched up into him. "Don't stop."
"Not stopping." His mouth found my ear. "Not even a little bit."
I grabbed his shoulders and held on.
"Been thinking about this," he said, low, his lips dragging against my jaw. "Tried not to. Couldn't stop."
"Me too." The words came out breathless. "Since the second day."
He made a rough sound. His hips snapped forward and I gasped.
"Yeah?" His voice had dropped. "Tell me."
"I—" I didn't have the words, not sophisticated ones, not the words from the books. "I thought about you. At night. I didn't—I didn't know how to?—"
"I know." He kissed me hard. "I know, beautiful."
He shifted, changed the angle, and whatever I'd been about to say dissolved entirely. I heard myself making sounds I had no control over and stopped trying to have control over them, because he'd told me he wanted to hear me and I was going to give him everything he wanted.
This was my book.
The thought arrived clear and certain even through the heat of it — this was my book, my story, the one I'd been reading toward for weeks without knowing it, and I was the heroine and he was the hero and we were in the third act and I was not going to miss a single second of it.
"Forrest." I pulled him closer, my legs wrapping around him, changing the depth of it, feeling him everywhere. "I want—" I stopped.
"Tell me." His voice was rough, ragged at the edges. "Tell me what you want."
I'd never been asked that. Not once. Not about anything.
"I want you to—" I pressed my face to his throat. "I want you to finish inside me."
He groaned, low and deep, his whole body shuddering.
"Yeah," he said. "Willa." Like my name was the answer to something.
"Please." I moved with him, finding his rhythm, chasing it. "Please, I want—I want all of it, I want?—"
"I've got you." His hand slid between us, finding the place that made me see white, and I cried out. "Come for me first. Give me that first."
The books were gone.
There was nothing left in my head but him — his voice low against my ear, his hand between us, his body moving with mine, and all of it building toward something I couldn't see yet but could feel coming from a long way off.
"That's it." His voice was rough, barely controlled. "Feel that? Feel how good you take me?"
I couldn't speak. I made a sound instead.
"Been wanting this." His lips dragged against my temple. "Been wanting you. Every morning with your coffee and your questions and your—" he exhaled hard— "God, you have no idea what you do to me."
"Forrest—"
