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My body stayed wound tight, thighs trembling around his leg, skin too hot where his hands were touching me. The air smelled like blood, sex, and him, and my brain kept trying to form responsible thoughts while every other part of me wanted him inside of me.

“Take off your pants,” I mumbled into his neck.

He went still beneath me.

“Little Flower.”

I hated how careful he sounded. Hated the restraint in it. Hated the way his hands flexed on my hips as if he wanted to drag me closer but was refusing himself the urge.

“I want you,” I whispered back.

His breath left him roughly, ragged and broken. He wanted me too.

Bad.

I felt it in the tremor under his hands, in the tight line of his body, in the hard pulse of his cock where it rested between us, slick and heavy against his fist. He wanted me enough to shake.

The fever inside me purred as I reached down and wrapped my fingers around his cock. I gave him one long, slow, torturous stroke up his shaft. Back down. His head hit the back of the couch, and his eyes fluttered shut. “Fuuuck.”

My stomach clenched. Pleasure moved through me, but it came from him too. His need hit my skin like heat rolling off a stove. I felt it where his hand gripped my hip, where his breath broke against my shoulder, where his body fought pain, blood loss, and common sense for just one more inch of me.

“That’s so weird . . .”

“What?”

“I don’t know what’s happening to me.” My voice cracked. “I’ve been sick and aching and furious since you left. Every time I think about you, it gets worse. Touching you makes it quiet for five seconds, and then I need more.”

I kissed him, throbbing with the need to be filled by him, aching for him. “I need you inside of me.”

He groaned into my mouth, and the sound fed whatever had woken inside me. That was the only way I knew how to describe it. His desire slid through my skin, warm and sweet and wrong, and my body took to it like I had been starving for my entire life.

He tasted like blood and mint. I licked into his mouth and stroked him again. His hips bucked. His hand slapped the couch cushion, fingers digging in hard enough to tear fabric.

“Stop moving so much,” I breathed against his lips.

“You’re touching my cock.”

“Still.”

“You’re a nightmare.”

“Funny coming from the boogeyman.”

I hooked my fingers inside the waistband of his pants. He reached behind me to remove the toy from his leg as he slid out of his pants with my help. I wrapped my hand around him again and guided him beneath me, then sank down slowly.

My pussy stretched around his girth, his cock filling me nearly to my max. My nails bit into his shoulders, careful of the wound until care became impossible. He filled me inch by inch, finally giving my body what had it been screaming for since he’d vanished.

My pussy clenched around him as he drove himself deeper. I whimpered as he thrust every inch inside of me. The fever quieted. For half a second, peace bloomed inside me. Deep, dark, perfect peace. The ache vanished. The need stopped clawing. My bones settled. My skin fit. I could breathe.

Then his desire surged again.

The peace shattered.

He gripped my hips with bruising force, letting me set the pace while his body fought to survive it. Every lift, every slow drop, every drag of him inside me fed the thing beneath my skin until I felt almost dizzy with it. My toes curled as I found the perfect rhythm on top of him.

My hands slid up his chest, over bandages and hard muscle, and something flickered under my palms. A pulse. Not his heartbeat. His desire, his need flowing through me like electricity.

The rhythm turned filthy fast. I chased the quiet inside me, chased the seconds where touching him made the fever calm. His hands slid up my back and down again, worshiping and greedy, every touch making my skin glow hotter.