He sets me on the table, gets between my legs, and thrusts inside me as he crushes his lips to mine. A moment later, I break the kiss.
“Harder,” I whisper, and the word feels dangerous and decadent.
And so fucking necessary.
He obeys without flinching, his hips driving, mouth hungry, hands firm. There’s nothing tender about this. I don’t want tender. I just want Henry. The clock in my head is counting down to Boulder, to the seminar, to reality so loud I want to drown it.
He drags his mouth down my throat, scrapes his teeth along my shoulders.
“More,” I tell him. “More.”
And I get more.
Fast and messy and exactly what I asked for. We move like we’re trying to bruise the past out of our skin. He’s strong.
Every push lights up a nerve ending I didn’t know I had. Every pull feels like a promise hammered into place. The table creaks with each thrust.
We may break it.
I don’t care.
His mouth comes back to mine right when I need it. The scrape of stubble. The taste of want. We’re not gentle. Not nice.
He pulls back, pinches both my nipples hard.
I squeal and pull him back to my mouth.
We kiss.
We kiss.
We kiss.
He thrusts. Pokes at me. Drills into me.
And as he pummels inside me, I rise, rise, rise…
Until—
I shatter.
I fucking shatter.
Convulsions shake me, and I claw at Henry’s chest, his shoulders, his back.
I continue to hold on to him because I need to feel him come apart for me.
“Fuck, Tabitha,” he grits out.
Thrusting, thrusting, thrusting…
Until—
“Fuck!” He pushes into me hard, jarring me.
The table shakes.
Henry shakes.
