“Keep going,” she manages. “Don’t youdarestop!”
“Wasn’t planning on it,” I say into her hair.
I shift my grip, one hand firm at her hip and the other sliding to the small of her back, tilting her toward me, and the change makes her gasp my name again, “Anchor!”
Not Will, but my road name, the one that belongs to this life, to this cut, to the man I finally get to be all the way, and it sets something off in my blood that is primal, uncomplicated, and entirely mine.
The words dry up.
One second, she is breathing out half a sentence against my jaw, something fragmented and breathless that stopped being coherent two minutes ago, and then there is nothing. Just the sound of her, ragged and stripped back, each exhale shorter than the last, her mouth open against my neck like she has forgotten how to close it.
Her nails break through my skin. Ten small points of pressure driving into my shoulder, her hands finding the only thing available to grip while everything else in her world comes undone. Her thighs press in against my hips, shaking, a finecontinuous tremor running through the muscle like she is holding something at the edge of a cliff by her fingertips.
I drive deeper.
Her breath punches out of her.
The heat of her tightens around me, a slow, insistent pull that moves through every nerve ending I own and leaves nothing untouched. Each time I roll forward, she draws me in and holds, her body making its own argument, squeezing with a pressure that shuts my thoughts down one by one until there is nothing in my head but the slick drag of her, the sound of her breathing, and the bench creaking under my hand.
Pressure builds inside me, but I try to fight it off, forcing my teeth to clamp down.
Not yet.
Her hips roll up to meet mine, restless, urgent, chasing the angle, chasing me, her entire lower body moving with a single-minded purpose that has nothing to do with patience anymore. One of her hands leaves my shoulder and grabs the back of my neck instead, fingers digging into the tousled hair at my nape and pulling, yanking my mouth down to hers, and the kiss she gives me is open, desperate, and barely a kiss at all, more breath than pressure, more need than intention.
I put my lips to her ear. “Let go.” The words land and something in her breaks open.
Her spine arches off the bench, a full-body bow, her head thrown back, her throat exposed, and a sound tearing out of her that bounces off every wall in the room, the kind of sound she has no armor left to manage. Her body locks around mine, a sudden vicious clench that squeezes the breath straight out of my lungs, and then pulses, deep, rhythmic, relentless, each one gripping me harder than the last, dragging from the base of me to the tip in long rolling waves of pressure that blur the edges of my vision and make my knees give out from under me.
My palm slams flat to the bench behind her, the only reason either of us stays upright.
She is still going, still shuddering, her hips jerking forward in small, helpless movements she has no control over anymore. Every one of them drives the sensation deeper into me, until my jaw is locked so hard my back teeth ache, and my free hand has her hip in a grip that is going to leave a mark by morning.
Her arms wrap around my neck, dragging me into her as her face buries in my throat, and she lets out one last broken sound against my skin, muffled, wrecked, and completely hers, like she’s fallen clean over the edge and has no intention of coming back. Her body pulses around mine one more time.
Long, deep, and thorough.
And something in me snaps.
My hands find her hips and drag her forward to the very edge of the bench, flush against me, no space left between us, nothing held back, and the sound she makes at the sudden pressure is another small devastation I file away without meaning to.
“Millie.” Her name in my throat, rough and scraped raw.
She tightens her arms around my neck in answer, and the sensation of it, the tight heat of her still clenching around me in slow fading pulses, each one gripping and releasing and gripping again, pulls a sound out of me I don’t have any control over.
I drop my forehead to her shoulder.
My hips drive forward once, hard, and she gasps into my neck.
Again.
Her nails drag down my back.
The pressure inside me has been building since she walked through that front door with her folder of paperwork, her barely contained joy, and her voice going fast and bright with everything she could see that wasn’t there yet. It has been pulling tighter with every word out of her mouth and every roomwe walked through and every second of her hands on me in the close, warm dark of this pantry, and now it has nowhere left to go.
“God, you feel…” The sentence doesn’t finish. There are no words adequate to the end of it.
She turns her face into my jaw. “I know,” she breathes. “I know.”
