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“Now. Please.”

He pushed into me with a long, steady pressure, and I held still and let myself feel it. In this position, he went deeper than he ever had before, and the sensation was so full and so intense that I pressed my face into the pillow and breathed slowly through it. He stopped as soon as I did and stayed absolutely still, his thumbs moving in small circles on my hips.

“All right?”

“More than all right. Give me a moment, and then I’ll want you to move.” I breathed out. “I’m adjusting. It’s the good kind of adjustment.”

“Take whatever time you need.”

When I rocked back against him, he made a deep, rough sound, and then he began to move, slowly at first. Each stroke dragged along exactly the place his fingers had found earlier, and I felt the pleasure begin to gather again. I pushed back to meet him. We found the rhythm together, his hips and mine arriving in the same moment, until the wet, soft sounds of it filled the room.

“You feel incredible,” he said. His voice was rough and warm, and he bent forward until I could feel it against my shoulder. “I can see everything from here, your back and your hips, and the way you take me. I want to remember it.”

“Don’t just remember it,” I said, my voice breaking. “Give me your hand.”

He slid one arm around my waist and pressed his fingers against my clit, and I let out a cry I couldn’t have held back if I’d tried. He circled once, twice, with the same light, slow pressure he’d learned from me, and I felt myself tighten.

“Faster, please,” I said. “A little firmer. Yes, there. Exactly there.”

He gave me all of it. His pace quickened and deepened, and the sound of our bodies meeting grew louder, but he kept his touch perfectly gentle where I needed it, and when I turned my face to catch my breath I found him watching me with his mouth parted and his eyes dark. It was almost too much. It was exactly enough.

“Come for me,” he said against my ear. “I want to feel it again.”

The second orgasm didn’t build so much as break open. It took hold of me all at once, muscles clenching around him in hard, deep pulses, and I cried out into the pillow, his name tearing out of me in pieces. He held me through it with his arm locked around my waist, and he swore, low and reverent, as I tightened around him again and again. When I could breathe, I realized he had slowed almost to stillness, shaking with the effort.

“Hudson.”

“I’m here.” He sounded wrecked. “I’ve got you.”

“I want to see your face. Will you turn me over?”

“Absolutely.”

He eased out of me carefully, and I rolled onto my back at the edge of the bed. My legs were unsteady and I was laughing a little. Hudson stepped between my knees, caught me behind the thighs, and I wrapped them around his waist as he sank into me again. This time we both made the same sound, and we stayed there for a moment, forehead to forehead, breathing together.

“There you are,” I said.

“Right here.” His smile was sweet and unguarded. “You all right down there?”

“Wonderful.” I pushed a damp strand of hair off his forehead. “Now move, please, and don’t look away.”

He didn’t. He moved in long, deep strokes, watching my face, and his voice dropped to a murmur against my lips. “I love how you take every inch of me. I love that you’re still looking at me while you do it.” I held on to his shoulders and watched his face, learning how his eyes darkened and his brows drew together when he was close. I put my hand against his jaw. His stubble scratched my palm. I could feel him trembling now, a tension running through his arms, and I lifted my hips to meet him and said, very softly, “Come inside me. I want to feel you.”

“Peyton.” It sounded half like a plea and half like thanks. His rhythm broke, and he buried his face against my neck as he came, a long groan vibrating into my skin, his hips pressing deep as he shuddered through it. I held him with my arms and legs, one hand sliding up through his hair, and I felt every pulse of it.

It took a long time for either of us to move. When he finally lifted his head, his hair was a mess, his face was flushed, and he looked happier than anyone has any right to look.

“I’m not sure I can stand,” he said.

“Then don’t.”

He laughed, kissed me, and we worked our way up the mattress in a tangle of limbs and bedding, collapsing across the sheets with his arm under my head and my leg thrown over his. His heart thudded under my ear, fast and then slower. Neither of us said anything for a while. I trailed my fingertips over his stomach, and he rubbed slow circles on my shoulder with his thumb, and the lamplight painted the ceiling gold.

Hudson reached for the water he’d left on the bedside table and offered me the glass first.

I took a grateful drink, then settled beside him again.

Hudson drew the covers over us.