Page 104 of Until Joy

“Joy.” My name was a prayer on his lips.

“I need you,” I whispered against his mouth. “I need to feel you, to know you're here with me.”

His response was immediate and overwhelming. He rolled me beneath him, his weight settling between my thighs as his mouth found the sensitive spot below my ear. I arched into him, pushing my hands under his shirt to map the familiar landscape of his back. The scars that told the story of battles fought and survived.

His teeth grazed my earlobe, sending fire straight through my core. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

“Show me.” The words slipped out before I could stop them.

His hands trembled as they found the hem of my stolen t-shirt. Graham Wallace, the man who'd faced down terrorists and survived explosions, was shaking because of me. Because of what we meant to each other.

He lifted the shirt over my head with reverent care, his eyes drinking in every inch of exposed skin. When his thumb traced the scar below my breast, I tensed for just a moment before melting into his touch.

“You're so damn beautiful.” His voice was rough with want.

I pulled his shirt over his head, needing the contact of skin against skin. My fingers traced the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of muscle that flexed under my touch. When I found his nipple and scraped my nail across it, he groaned low in his throat.

“That's not fair.” He captured my wrists, pinning them above my head with one large hand.

“What are you going to do about it?”

His answer was to lower his head and capture my breast in his mouth, his tongue circling the sensitive peak until I was writhing beneath him. The wet heat of his mouth contrasted with the cool air against my skin, making me gasp and arch into him.

“Graham.” His name came out breathless. Needy.

He switched to my other breast, lavishing the same attention while his free hand skimmed down my ribs, over my hip, to the waistband of my panties. His fingers dipped beneath the lace, finding me already slick with want.

“God, you're wet.” He lifted his head to look at me, his pupils blown wide with desire. “Is this for me?”

I could only nod, lost in the sensation of his fingers stroking through my folds, teasing but not quite giving me what I needed.

“I want to hear you say it.” His thumb found my clit, then circled with just enough pressure to make me crazy.

“Yes.” The word came out as a moan. “All for you.”

He rewarded me by sliding one finger inside me, then two, curling them in a way that almost got me to where I wanted to be. My hips bucked against his hand, seeking more friction, more pressure, more everything.

“That's it, baby. Take what you need.”

I was close, so close, when he withdrew his hand. I whimpered at the loss, but he was already hooking his fingers in my panties, dragging them down my legs with impatient movements.

His jeans followed along with his boxers, and then he was settling between my thighs, the hard length of him pressing against my entrance. We stayed like that for a heartbeat, foreheads touching, breathing each other's air.

“Are you sure?” His voice was strained with the effort of holding back.

I nodded and he got protection.

Then I wrapped my legs around his waist and pulled him to me. We both groaned as he slid home, filling me completely, perfectly.

For a moment, we didn't move. The sensation of being joined so completely, so intimately, was overwhelming. I could feel every inch of him inside me, stretching me, completing me.

Then he began to move, slow and deep, each thrust deliberate and measured. I met him stroke for stroke, our bodies finding that perfect rhythm that belonged only to us.

His mouth found mine again, swallowing my moans as the pressure built between us. I could taste the desperation in his kiss, the need to prove we were here, alive, together.

“Harder.” The word slipped out without my permission.

He complied immediately, his pace increasing, his thrusts becoming more demanding. The headboard hit the wall with each movement, but neither of us cared. All that mattered was this connection, this claiming, this perfect storm of sensation.