This impossible, furious, beautiful woman.
I thrust harder. Her back arches off the mattress, her breasts pressing into my chest, and she gasps my name.
“Zane.”
That is it.
Not the sex, the heat, or my cock buried deep inside the only woman I have ever loved. It’s her saying my name as if it still belongs in her mouth.
I slide one hand under her ass and grip her hard, lifting her hips higher. Her legs spread wider for me, and the new angle lets me sink deeper.
“There,” I say, my voice low, watching her face. “That’s the spot, isn’t it?”
Her eyes snap open. Even shaking, she manages a glare.
“Don’t sound too proud of yourself.”
I drive into her again and her mouth falls open, the insult dying before it can take hold. My mouth curves because fuck, there she is. My Sky.
“Hard not to be proud,” I say, leaning forward and dragging my lips over her jaw. “You keep making those sounds for me.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
She whispers in my ear, “I’m still deciding.”
A rough laugh escapes me, then turns into a groan as she rolls her hips and takes me deeper.
I kiss her with every filthy, starving part of me.
My tongue slides against hers and my mouth swallows the sounds she cannot hold back. Her fingers grip my hair, tugging hard enough to hurt. I thrust into her, and she meets me, her body moving under mine with the same reckless fire she used to have, and something new, too. Something sharper. A woman who survived me and still came back.
That thought almost breaks me.
I don’t deserve this. I know it in every ugly part of myself. But I take what she gives me because I am not noble enough to walk away from Skylar when her legs are wrapped around me and her mouth is open beneath mine.
Her pussy clenches around my cock and my breath catches.
She is close.
I feel it in the way her thighs tremble against my hips and in the way her nails dig into my shoulders, as if she needs to anchor herself before the pleasure drags her under.
“Sky,” I breathe.
My control starts to slip.
It happens slowly at first.
A crack in the careful part of me. A shift in the rhythm. My hips move harder, faster, chasing the way she tightens around me every time I hit that perfect spot inside her.
Then she whispers my name again.
That’s when I lose the last clear thought in my head. My hand tightens on her ass, lifting her higher, opening her wider. I fuck into her harder, each thrust driving the bed against the wall, each sound from her mouth feeding the part of me that has been starving for her.
Her hands are everywhere.
On my shoulders. In my hair. On my back. She scratches, grips, holds on, and I fucking love it. I want marks, the proof that when I wake tomorrow with her nails seared into my skin. If she is going to be mad at me, she can do it while I carry evidence that tonight happened.
