Page 131 of Freed
“Careful,” he says, voice shredded. “Or this is going to be over embarrassingly fast.”
I smile against his mouth, breathless and wicked. “Then you’d better make it count.”
His eyes darken. And then he moves.
At first, it’s measured. Almost gentle. A slow drag out, a deep press back in, like he’s trying to memorize the exact shape of me around him. Like he’s been starving and still can’t bring himself to rush the first taste.
I hate how much it destroys me.
His mouth finds my jaw, my throat, the spot beneath my ear that makes my fingers curl into his skin. Every thrust rolls through me pulling a broken little sound from my mouth before I can stop it.
His hand tightens on my thigh, holding me open as his hips sink into mine again.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, voice rough and low. “That’s what I missed.”
He stills for half a heartbeat, buried deep, his face hovering over mine. His eyes are too dark, too close, too full of everything I don’t know how to survive.
“I missed you,” he says.
I shake my head, because I can’t take that. Not from him. Not while he’s inside me and his body is making promises his mouth should know better than to speak. But he doesn’t let me look away. His fingers slide into my hair, gripping just enough to hold me there.
“I missed this.” His hips rock forward, slow and devastating, and my eyes flutter. “Your mouth. Your skin. The way you try to pretend you don’t need me right before you fall apart.”
I gasp, nails digging into his shoulders.
His mouth brushes mine, not quite a kiss. “I missed the sounds you make.”
He moves again, harder this time, and the sound he wants escapes me before I can swallow it.
A groan tears from his chest.
“There,” he says. “God, I missed that.”
The rhythm changes. The tenderness doesn’t leave, but heat overtakes it, turning every touch sharper, every breath shorter. He drives into me like restraint is a thing he once had and can no longer remember how to hold. The bed shifts beneath us. My legs lock around him. His name breaks on my tongue, and he answers by kissing me so deeply I can barely breathe. It’s messy. Desperate.
Perfect.
His hand finds my stomach again, palm spread wide over the soft curve of me, and this time he doesn’t pause. He keeps it there as he moves, like he needs to feel all of me. Like there isn’t a single part of my body he hasn’t been aching for.
“I thought about you every damn night,” he says against my mouth. “Hated myself for it. Wanted you anyway.”
My chest tightens.
“Don’t,” I whisper, even as my body arches into his.
He kisses the word from me. “I did. In my bed. In the shower. In every empty room where you weren’t.” His voice drops lower, rougher. “I missed the weight of you under me. Missed how you take me. Missed feeling you shake when you come.”
Pleasure flashes hot and bright through me and he feels it. His jaw clenches, his pace faltering for one raw second before he finds it again, deeper and harder.
“That’s it,” he whispers. “Let me have you.”
“I’m right here.”
“No.” His breath shudders. “All of you.”
The words strike somewhere soft and terrible.
I drag him down into a kiss because I can’t answer any other way. Because if I speak, I might tell him the truth. That I missed him too. That I missed this so badly it made me furious. That no one else has ever known how to touch me like I’m both precious and breakable and something worth losing control over.
