Page 117 of Returned Mail

I swallow hard. “You’re staring again.”

He doesn’t flinch. “I know.”

My pulse spikes.

We finish lunch, but neither of us moves to take the tray away. It stays between us—unnecessary, and ignored—because he’s looking at me like he’s cataloging every place he wants to touch. And I’m looking at him like I want to give him permission.

Finally, he reaches forward, moves the tray to the floor, and settles it quietly beside the bed. Then he looks back at me, eyes dark, voice low. “Come here.”

I don’t think.

I don’t breathe.

I just move.

The moment my body touches his, everything inside me unravels once again. His hands are on my hips, gripping hard, and he's pulling me onto his lap. Our mouths crash together, hot and urgent and devastating. He kisses me like everything we've been doing all day was just foreplay, like he's been starving for months and I'm the only thing keeping him alive.

I moan into his mouth, and he groans into mine.

His fingers slip under the hem of the shirt—his shirt—and he skims up my waist, my ribs, my sides. His thumb brushes just under the curve of my breast, and my entire body arcs into him involuntarily. I'm completely at his mercy.

“Fuck, Mia,” he murmurs against my lips. “You're driving me insane.”

His words send heat flooding through me. I clutch the back of his neck, pulling him closer. He lays me back on the mattress and follows, bracing himself above me with one arm while his other hand slides down the inside of my thigh, moving closer to where I'm already aching for him.

My breath shatters. “George—” I can barely get his name out.

“Yeah,” he whispers, lips tracing along my jaw. “Say it. Tell me what you want.” His fingers find the edge of my panties, and I'm lifting my hips, desperate for him to touch me.

“I want you, fuck—” It’s all I manage to say. God, I’m trembling.

He drags my panties down slowly, teasingly, kissing me the entire time, tasting every sound that spills from my mouth. When the fabric slips past my knees, he drops it without looking, his eyes blazing into mine with hunger and need.

Then, softly and hungrily, he says. “I need you to come in my mouth again.”

My gasp is immediate and loud.

I grab his shoulders, breath shattering. He kisses a slow trail down my body, my ribs, my stomach, the inside of my hip, until I'm shaking violently under him, my fingers buried deep in his hair. And when his mouth finally reaches me, I completely fall apart.

I break open against his tongue, his mouth devouring me, and the sounds he makes, the groans, the hunger, they destroy me. My hips lift helplessly, seeking more. My fingers tighten hard in his hair. My voice spills out loud, desperate, and unfiltered.

“George—oh fuck.” I gasp, my hips lifting helplessly, seeking more of his mouth, more of him. “George, yes—just like that. Oh⁠—”

He loves every second of it.

I can feel it in the way he groans softly against my skin, in the way he holds my hips down when I try to pull away from the intensity, in the way he murmurs, “I’ve got you, sweetheart, I’ve got you.” He slides a finger inside me, then another, curling them inside me while his tongue continues moving on my clit.

The combination is devastating. I'm completely helpless, completely at his mercy, my hips moving against his face desperately.

I come hard. Shaking and barely breathing. My vision is blurring with the force of it. I can feel how wet I am. He climbs back up my body slowly, kissing everywhere he can reach, until he’s hovering above me, breath ragged, pupils blown wide.

I reach for him and pull him down hard, feeling his weight settle over me. His mouth crashes into mine again, desperate and intoxicating, like he can't get enough of me. His hips press into mine, and I feel him right at my entrance.

I gasp into his mouth when he enters me, pushing inside me, stretching me to take all of him. His breath completely stutters.

“Mia,” he groans, voice wrecked. “Fuck, I want you. I want you so bad.”

“Then take me,” I whisper, tugging at his waistband.