Page 69 of Honeyfires

"Roll over," I said. "Hands and knees."

"Petra, I just—"

"I didn't hear parachute."

She moved. Unsteady, trembling, and moved.

I ran one hand slowly up her spine, feeling the shiver that followed it, and fisted my other hand in her hair—not yanking, just gathering, closing my grip until she felt the pull—and felt her whole body go still and electric beneath me.

"This okay?" I said, low, directly behind her ear.

"Yes. Yes, please, don't let go—"

I tightened my grip slightly and heard her exhale like something finally released.

"Good," I said. "Don't move."

I entered her slowly, feeling her adjust, watching her hands grip the sheets, her head pulled back slightly by my fist in her hair, her throat exposed in a line that made it very difficult to be patient. I set a pace that was not slow. She dropped her forehead to the mattress and said my name, and I pulled her back up by her hair and said "stay up, I want to see you," and she made a sound I had no word for and stayed up.

"There." I pressed my mouth to the back of her neck. "That's exactly right."

I felt her knees start to shake. I put my free hand on her hip and held her there—held her still and open for me with my fist in her hair and my hand at her hip and my body driving into hers—and she was making sounds that were no longer words, just sounds, completely given over, absolutely nothing left held back.

"You're mine," I said against her shoulder blade.

"Yours—"

"Say it properly."

"I'm yours," she gasped. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—"

"Come for me," I said, my grip tightening. "Right now."

She shattered. Completely. I worked her through all of it, every convulsion, every ragged breath, easing slowly as the waves passed, until she was limp in my hands and I was the only thing holding her up.

I set her down gently. Pressed a kiss between her shoulder blades.

She made a sound that might have been my name.

"Still with me?" I asked.

"Barely," she managed. "Barely with anyone."

I helped her turn over. She lay on her back and looked up at me with the expression of someone who had briefly left their body and was not in a hurry to return. Hair tangled, lips swollen, four different marks on her throat and shoulder, and collarbone that she was going to notice tomorrow and that I was going to feel unreasonably pleased about.

I ran one hand up her side. "One more," I said.

She blinked. "Petra—"

"I know." I moved over her, settling my weight against her. "You have everything left. I know."

She looked at me for a long moment. Then something in her face went very still and very certain, and she reached up and covered my hand with hers and moved it—deliberately, watching my eyes the whole time—to her throat.

My hand curved around it. Firm. Present. Thumb against her jaw, fingers along the side, palm flat against her pulse. No pressure on the airway. Just the weight of it. Just mine.

Her eyes didn't leave mine.

"There," she breathed.