Page 112 of Returned Mail

Two people who’ve been holding this for so long.

She meets me with equal intensity, body lifting into every touch, fingers slipping under the hem of my shirt and splaying across my back. The first dig of her nails turns my brain to static.

“George,” she breathes. My name sounds like a prayer in her mouth.

“Mia,” I groan back. “Jesus.”

I drag my mouth down her jaw, along the curve of her throat, tasting the pulse fluttering there. She tilts her head, granting me more access, breath catching when I suck gently. Her hands slip lower, clutching my waist, then my sweats’ waistband. My control snaps. I sit up enough to grab the hem of my shirt. Her eyes track the movement, pupils dilating even more.

“You’re okay?” I ask.

She nods, eyes fixed on my chest like she’s trying to memorize every scar. I pull the shirt off and drop it somewhere behind us. Her gaze skims everywhere. My neck, my shoulders, the mess where some of the tissue didn’t knit flat.

She reaches up, fingertips tracing over one of the rougher patches. I tense, and she notices.

“Does it hurt?” she asks softly.

I shake my head, and her eyes flick to mine, shining.

“You’re beautiful,” she says simply. I almost laugh. But I swallow it and lean down, catching her mouth with mine because if I don’t, I’m going to say something stupid like ‘I think I was made for loving you’.

My hand slides beneath the hem of my shirt on her body this time. She is warm and soft and shaking. I trace the edge of her ribs, the curve of her waist, the underside of her breast. The small, broken sound she makes when my thumb grazes more sensitive skin goes straight to my spine.

Everything in me goes quiet. It’s not just the sight of her—though that’s enough to wreck a lesser man. It’s the trust. The way she lies there, bare to me, eyes open, not flinching, not hiding.

“Hey,” she says softly. “Where did you go? Are you okay?

I nod, throat tight. “Yeah. Just… trying to remember every second of this.”

Her lips curve. “You get more seconds if you come back down here.”

“Right,” I say, voice rough. “Good point.”

I lower myself again, careful of my ribs, weight braced on one arm as the other explores the territory she just gave me. I slide one hand over her breasts, touching her nipples while they harden at my touch.

She arches into my hand, breathy sounds spilling out as I map her body. I kiss her again and start tracing little lines with my tongue until I reach her nipples. I grab one of her breasts and bite her. Hard enough to make her whimper, but not enough for it to hurt.

I keep lowering myself on her body, my mouth traces her stomach, until I reach the hem of her shorts. My eyes wander to hers as if I were asking for permission. I hook my fingers into the fabric and pull them down until they hit her ankles, then put them away along with her panties. She hesitates at first. I can see it. Her thighs tense when I nudge them apart. But then, she opens them wide for me. I hold her steady as I lower my face to be between her legs.

When I make the first lick into her, I don’t break eye contact.

Not until I see her eyes roll back and her hands grab the edge of the couch. I lick her again, and again and again… She’s trembling under me, and that’s when I suck and bite her clit, sliding one finger into her at the same time.

She tastes so fucking good.

“Oh fuck— George.”

Those words fuck. Hearing my name on her lips when she’s like this under me… It does something I didn't expect. The way she tastes, the way she moves against my mouth, my hands, my body. The way she says please without actually saying the word, just by rolling her hips like she's not sure where to put all this wanting.

“Mia,” I murmur against her skin. “Tell me what you need right now.”

Her fingers fist in my hair. “You,” she says. “Just… you.”

I press my forehead against her thigh for a second, trying to hang on to the last sliver of reason. Then I lower my mouth between her thighs again. I know what she likes already from the way she moves, the sounds she makes when my fingers trace her entrance, how wet she is right now.

“You’re still okay?” I ask again.

She nods, then shakes her head, then laughs nervously. “Yes. No. I mean—yes. I just—my brain has left the building.”