Page 39

His belt comes free with a sound that cuts through the room. I undo his trousers and wrap my fingers around him—thick, hard, fever-hot—and his hips jerk up in one involuntary thrust that pulls a hiss through his teeth.

His fingers press harder against the damp fabric between my thighs, and I rock into his hand while stroking him once, twice, dragging my thumb over the head until his stomach contracts beneath bruised skin.

"Vera." His voice is dark and hoarse.

I tighten my grip. "Tell me what you remember."

His hand curls into the sheets beside the cannula. "That you shake before you come."

The word lands between my legs. I release him only long enough to pull my underwear aside, and his fingers chase the movement, sliding through wet heat, pressing inside me with two fingers that curl against the front wall until my vision blurs.

"You remember that." My voice breaks.

"My hands do." He withdraws his fingers and positions himself against my entrance. "My hands remember everything."

I sink down. One inch at a time, because four years of anger need to be paid in full and I want him to feel every second of what he walked away from. His jaw locks, his right hand grips my hip hard enough to bruise, and the breath punches out of him in one shattered exhale.

I stop when he's fully seated, pressing my palms flat against his chest on either side of the dressing. The stretch opens something I've carried sealed and aching since Moscow, and my body clamps down around him before I can stop it.

"Fuck." His thumb digs into my hip bone. "You feel⁠—"

"Say it." I roll my hips once, slow and grinding, keeping my weight off his abdomen while the drain tubing rests loose along his right side. "Finish the sentence."

His left arm stays frozen beside his head while his right hand slides from my hip to the small of my back. "You feel like mine."

I squeeze around him so hard, his eyes close. "I was never yours. You left."

His fingers spread across my lower back, dragging me closer. "I'm here now."

I rise and sink back down, setting a rhythm that punishes us both. Each stroke buries him deep and grinds my clit against the base of his cock, and the friction drags sounds from my throat I've swallowed for four years.

"There." His breathing stutters. "That sound—I know that sound."

"You should." I dig my nails into his shoulder, riding him harder. "You heard it against your mouth while your fingers were inside me."

His hips buck once before he catches himself with a reflexive thrust that makes us both gasp. I press my hand flat against his uninjured shoulder.

"Don't move."

"I'm not moving." The tendons in his neck pull taut. "I'm lying still while you take exactly what you need from me."

I lean down and bite the line of his jaw. "I need you to remember."

"I remember this." His right hand slides beneath my sweater, palm hot against my spine. "I remember you were loud."

"I was honest." I grind down, and his breath breaks. "Something you'd know if you'd stayed until morning."

His fingers spread wide across my back, pulling me flush against his chest while his hips roll in shallow, careful thrusts that keep pressure off his incision but drive him deep enough to make my thighs tremble. "I'm staying now."

His thumb drags across my nipple through my bra, and I arch into the touch with a moan that fills the room. He groans low, his voice raw and dragged from somewhere beneath the ink and the scars.

"Good." He presses harder, thumb circling. "You sound so fucking good."

"Don't." I grip his wrist. "Don't compliment what you threw away."

His hand cups my jaw, tilting my face down to his. Fever-bright eyes, blown pupils, and a recognition that cuts deeper than the sex. "I didn't throw you away. I lost you."

I kiss him because the alternative is crying, and the kiss turns filthy—tongues and teeth and the wet sound of skin while I ride him in long strokes that make the headboard tap the wall. His right hand drops from my jaw to my clit, and two fingers circle with a precision that makes my rhythm falter.