Page 24 of While I’m Still Here

"Someone's been single for three years and likes to be prepared."

I reach blindly for the side table and get lucky. She watches me roll it on, her teeth pressed into her bottom lip, her hand trailing over my stomach like she's mapping me for later. The touch is light, but it still makes me hiss.

"Okay?" she asks.

"More than okay."

"Then stop making me wait."

I position myself, the head of me pressed to her entrance, and hold there. Her eyes find mine. Her breath goes shallow.

"Bea."

"Colin. Please."

I push inside. She's tight. She's warm. She's every fantasy I've ever had and none of them, because fantasy never included the way her eyes widen, the way her mouth falls open, the way her body opens for me like we've done this a hundred times before. Like we were always meant to.

"Fuck," she whispers.

"Yeah."

I give her time to adjust, even though it nearly kills me. A bead of sweat rolls down my spine. Her muscles flutter around me, and I have to grit my teeth against how good it feels.

Then she rocks her hips, and time's up.

I start slow. Long, deep strokes that make her gasp each time I bottom out. One arm braced beside her head, the other hooked under her knee, tilting her hips just so. Her nails track down my back. Her lips move against my ear, but no sound comes out—just hot, uneven breaths.

"I've wanted you for seven years," I tell her. "I don't need to imagine anything else."

She makes a sound that might be a laugh or a moan. Her hips rise to meet mine, and the angle changes, and suddenly she's clenching around me, and her voice is breaking.

"Harder."

I don't answer. I snap my hips. Her head falls back, throat exposed, and she lets out a sound that's almost animal. The couch creaks beneath us. Somewhere in the flat, a clock ticks. But here, in this moment, there's only the slap of skin and the ragged music of our breathing.

"Harder."

"Bea—"

"Please, Colin. I need to feel it. I need⁠—"

I give her what she's asking for. Driving into her with enough force that the couch shudders. Her fingers scramble for purchase on my shoulders, and her legs lock around me, pulling me deeper. Her moans sharpen into cries, and I can feel the tension building in her again, coiling through her thighs and spine.

But not yet. Not until I show her.

I slow my pace without warning, and she grunts in frustration.

"What are you⁠—"

"Look at me."

She does.

And I'm still again. Buried to the hilt. Breathing hard.

"I need you to know something," I say.

Her eyes are wide and dazed, and she's searching my face like she's trying to find her own pulse. "What?"