“I want your weight on me. I want your hands on me. I want you to stop being careful. I want”—my breath hitches—“Iwant you inside me. Please.”
He fistshis cock andruns thecrownslowlythroughmy folds, coating himself in mywetness.He does it again. And again. I mewl with pleasure each time he bumps my clit.
Guiding himself to my entrance, he pushes in slowly, watching my face. The stretch of him is perfect and almost too much. His jaw locks tight as he stops halfway, his forehead pressed to mine, his eyes focused on me. Only me. Letting me see him. In some ways, it’s more intimate than the physical act itself.
“Christ, Tess.”
I tilt my hips.“All the way, Sullivan.”
“You’re so tight?—”
“All the way.”
He sinks into me to the hilt.It burns, and Imake a sound I’venever made in my life.
He buries his face in the curve of my neck and exhalesinto my hair like a man who’s been holding his breath fora very longtime.
“I have you,” he murmurs.
Tears spring to my eyes.“And I have you.”
“Yeah.” His voice catches. “Yeah, you do.”
He moves with me like a man who’s paying attention.Bracinghis weight on his forearms,he keeps his eyes on my faceas his hips moveand his cock drags through me with the rhythm of a man who’s decided he’s not in a hurry.
“You with me, Tess?”
“Yes, yes, yes.”
Somewhere in the middle of it,I realize I’m not just being made love to; I’m beingseen in the wayI’vewanted for twenty-fouryears.
His hand slides between us, andhis thumb finds my clit. He works it in slow circles in time with his thrusts, his eyes on my face, and the world breaks apart at the edges.
“Sullivan, I’m…”
“I have you. Come for me.”
Icomehard around him. I come with my back arched off the couch, my hands fisted in his hair, and the heat of him deep inside me. His thumb lingers on my clit, working me through every shudder. He watches the whole of it, his breath ragged, his eyes on mine, and his hand cuppingmy cheeklike I’mmade of magic.
He follows. Quietly. With my name in my hair, breath shaky, his forehead pressed to mine.
We don’t move for a long time.
Outside, the wind has finally quieted. Inside, the cabin is silent, the fire is out, the coals orange under gray ash.
“Tess.”
“Mm?”
“You’re cold.”
I snuggle closer. “I’m fine.”
“Your hands are cold.”
“My hands are always cold.”
Sullivangrabs the wool throw from the back of the couch, pulls it over us,and gathers me closer. He turns us soI’mtucked against the back of the couch with him in front of me, my breasts against his chest,onearm under my head andtheother a heavy, deliberate weight across my hip.
