“Go where?” I ask, my voice breathy and vulnerable in a way I can’t fight. We are still as close as we can be without being pressed together.
“To take you the way I want to. The way I haven’t stopped thinking about since I saw you that first day at the courthouse.”
My throat goes dry, and my center pulses. I make myself hear his warning. And I do hear it. But I don’t care. I want him while I can have him, even if it means only for the remainder of this fast-closing case, even if it’s just for this one night. I hadn’t realized how so much of my life went on hold when he left, how stunted and dispassionate I have been, and that being back with him now has allowed me to press play once more.
I am sixteen again, but in a body that holds ten years of pent-up want.
He lifts his hand and cups the right side of my head, his thumb rubbing gently along the small scar on the right side of my forehead. I lean into his touch. Though changed, it’s still a bodily reminder of his previous version of me.
I cannot fight it any longer. The cabin fever has left me utterly inflamed. I step urgently forward and jump onto him, arms around his neck, legs wrapping around his waist. He responds effortlessly—his arms immediately around my lower back, one hand wrapped under my backside. He rarely has words, but right now, he doesn’t need any. He knows what I want. And I know with complete certainty his body demands mine, too.
He holds me up, pressing his lips onto my waiting mouth. Our lips pinned together, just as his tongue forces its way to mine, he takes three steps forward and releases me onto the bed, then follows, landing atop me. He stops his fall with his elbows, hovering just above me, only our legs intertwined. His kisses up until now have been stable, a layer of control always within his reach. Now, they are fiery and uncontrolled and desperate, like there are ten years of desire and longing pouring out of him, too, our lips and tongues the conduits for the explosive exchange.
Our mouths separate briefly as the bed bounces, though it’s only a split second before we connect again. He shifts his weight to one side, his outstretched palm making its way to the bare skin of my stomach under my blouse, his firm touch made more intense next to the silky fabric of my top.
His hand skims my back, inching closer to the clasp of my bra. I close my eyes and nod, lifting slightly so he can reach around and unclasp it. He does, and immediately his hand is separating me from it, my right breast in his palm as he squeezes gently. Then a second time, harder, which sends a wave of need across my midsection. Part of me thinks I should stop him, slow things down to leave more to savor. But I couldn’t stop the rolling force even if I tried. I lift into him, needing to be as close as possible but frustrated by the layers between us. I create some space so I can remove my blouse and loose bra. He watches.
“Get to work,” I say, and he obediently removes his pants as I shimmy out of my A-line skirt. And that smell, horse saddle leather—I must mount him immediately.
He’s down to his black boxer briefs, and me, to a nude thong. I reach down and grab the thin straps of my underwear to remove it when his hand grasps my wrist to stop me.
“I’ll do it,” he says, his blue-green eyes locked on mine.
I release my grip, as does he, and I lift to my elbows to watch as he slowly lowers until his face hovers just above the delicate fabric. He’s so close I can feel his hot breath penetrating the thin cotton. That sensation alone causes me to throw my head back in pleasure. He remains there a moment too long with no movement. Impatient, I raise my hips ever so slightly so the scruff of his five o’clock shadow brushes against the triangle of fabric. He exhales mightily, and the warmth of it finds the skin above my pubic bone, sending a ripple of goose bumps across my stomach, down my thighs. He brushes his fingertips along my inner thigh, forcing the goose bumps to further mound. As I’m about to voice my torment, my need to feel the weight of him, he lays a tongue-led kiss to that same spot of fabric, and my eyes and head roll back in reply.
Unexpectedly, he rises, his mouth greeting mine again. He kisses me slowly, then breaks apart and grumbles out, “Are you sure you want this?”
The answer, of course, is more complicated than just yes or no. There are dozens of reasons I do want this, but also possibly hundreds for why we shouldn’t. But this is not a moment for the scales of reason. Ihave held out—pushed aside my desire for Damon—for as long as I possibly could. For perhaps my whole life. I cannot imagine sitting next to him in that trial box a day or even a moment longer without knowing the feel of his full skin.
My body needs him desperately, but my heart needs him more.
I look deep into his eyes and say, “Put your hands on me.”
There is no further hesitation. He swoops down to my feet and with him goes my thong. He also stands, removes his boxer briefs, and is back on top of me so quickly I can’t catch a view of his fully naked body. But I feel it, pressed against me as he covers me again. He’s like a furnace, warm and giving.
He takes both my hands in his, fingers interlaced, and raises them above my head, pinning them roughly to the bed. He kisses me deeply this way, our tongues vying for placement. His erection throbs against me, practically scalding with heat.
To the world, he is quiet. Gruff, even. Sad. But here, now, with me, he is—at least momentarily—tender. I want to wash away the last ten years that didn’t include him. I writhe against him, desperate for more.
“I don’t have a condom,” I say, the devastation of the realization hitting me. I cannot comprehend not seeing this through...
“I do.”
“You brought condoms to jury duty?”
He shakes his head, once, hovering over me. “No. Cam did.”
“You asked Cam for a condom?” I say, breathing hard, recalling condoms as one of his many smuggled items.
“Absolutely not. But after the roof, he found me the next day at breakfast and slipped it to me under the table.”
“That was presumptuous of him.”
He huffs, and at this angle, the bulging veins in his face and forehead remind me of a superhero in battle. “Itwaspresumptuous. And I was going to tell him later it wasn’t like that...”
“But?”
“But I hoped it was.”
