Something flickers in his gaze. Understanding. Recognition. Two people who have been drowning in the same ocean, finally finding each other.
He lifts me.
My back slides up the wall, and I wrap my legs around his waist on instinct, pulling him closer. The position changes everything. Now I'm looking down at him, my hands braced on his shoulders, my hair falling like a curtain around both our faces.
His eyes are fixed on mine. Dark and wanting and absolutely certain.
"Beautiful," he breathes. "You're so beautiful."
I kiss him before he can say anything else. Before the words can make me feel things I'm not ready to examine. His hands grip my thighs, holding me steady, and his mouth moves against mine with a thoroughness that makes me forget everything else.
There is only this. Only him. Only the way our bodies fit together like they were designed for it.
But it's not enough.
The wanting has been building for too long, through too many nights of distance and denial. Now that I've let myself have this, have him, I need more. Need everything.
"Maximus." His name comes out breathless. Pleading.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and his lips are swollen from my mouth. He looks wrecked. He looks beautiful.
"What do you need?" His voice is rough. Strained. "Tell me what you need."
"More." The word escapes before I can stop it. "I need more."
Something shifts in his expression. The hunger that's been simmering beneath the surface rises up, hot and undeniable.
"Are you sure?"
I answer by rolling my hips against him.
He groans, low and deep, and his forehead drops to my shoulder. I feel him shudder against me, feel the effort it takes for him to hold still.
"Celeste." My name is a warning. A plea. "If you keep doing that, I'm not going to be able to stop."
"I don't want you to stop."
His head comes up. His eyes search mine, looking for doubt, for hesitation.
He finds none.
"Hold on to me," he says.
I tighten my arms around his neck, and he shifts his grip. One hand stays under my thigh, holding me against the wall with effortless strength. The other slides up, trailing fire across my hip, my waist, the curve of my ribs.
He pauses at the hem of my sweater.
"Yes?" he asks.
"Yes."
His hand slips beneath the fabric. Cool fingers against my skin. I gasp at the contact, at the sensation of him touching me. His palm flattens against my stomach, and I feel myself tremble beneath it.
"So perfect," he murmurs against my throat.
His hand moves higher. His fingertips trace the ladder of my ribs one by one, counting them, mapping them, learning the architecture of my body. Each brush of his touch sends shivers radiating outward, building anticipation for where he might go next.
He reaches the underside of my breast and pauses.
