"Where?"
This asshole. This stalking, possessive asshole. And I'm soaked.
"Everywhere." The word comes out strangled, desperate. "Just—everywhere."
His mouth finds my neck, open and hot, trailing down to my collarbone in a path that makes my knees threaten to buckle. His hands slide from my face to my shoulders, my arms, my waist, every movement deliberate and careful, every touch asking a question before it lands.
"Here?" His lips brush the curve of my breast, warm breath teasing my nipple.
"Yes."
His hands cup me gently, thumbs brushing over my nipples, and my back arches into him before I can stop it. When his mouth closes over one peak and his tongue flicks against the sensitive flesh, I gasp and my fingers dig into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
I hate him. I hate that he's the one who makes me feel this. I hate that my body was waiting for him all along, like the last eight years were just a holding pattern until he came back.
He lowers me onto the bed with more care than I would expect, settling me against the pillows like I'm something precious instead of something broken. Then he kneels between my thighs, and his fingers hook into the waistband of my shorts, pausing there with a question in his eyes.
"Can I taste you?"
My breath catches. His face lowers until it's inches from my pussy, waiting. Patient. Like he has all the time in the world.
"Yes."
His mouth descends, and I'm already close.
Eight years of nothing. Eight years of numbness and now this — his tongue dragging slow and deliberate across my pussy, circling my clit with maddening precision, reading my body like he's spent years studying exactly how to take me apart.
Maybe he has. Maybe those cameras showed him more than I thought.
His tongue flicks against my clit and every coherent thought dissolves.
My hips buck off the mattress but he pins me down with one forearm across my stomach, holding me in place while his mouth works me higher and higher toward something I haven't felt in so long I'd almost forgotten what it was like to want it.
The edge rushes toward me and I'm reaching for it, desperate and aching, so close I can taste it—
He pulls back.
"Cole—" The word tears out of me, half sob and half snarl. My thighs are shaking around his head. "Don't stop. Please don't—"
"Tell me what you want." His breath ghosts over my soaked pussy, hot and maddening, and I could murder him for making me say it again.
Bastard. Fucking bastard. Making me beg when I'm already—
"Inside me." I barely recognize my own voice, raw and wrecked and desperate. "Now. I need you inside me, please, I can't—"
He doesn't make me beg twice.
He moves up the bed and settles beside me, and then his hands find my hips and he's pulling me over him, lying back against the pillows, putting me on top.
Letting me control this. Letting me set the pace. Letting me take what I need instead of taking from me.
I straddle him with my knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his hips, aware of the hard length of him straining against his pants beneath me. My hands work his belt open, then his zipper, and when I finally wrap my fingers around him, hot and thick and velvet-soft over steel, he makes a sound low in his throat that sends heat pooling between my thighs all over again.
I position him at my entrance and the soft head presses against me, stretching me as I sink down slowly, feeling every inch of him fill me. It's almost too much after eight years of nothing, almost overwhelming, but I don't stop until he's buried completely inside me and my thighs are pressed against his hips.
Eight years. Eight years of nothing and now this. Now him.
Don't think about what it means. Don't think about tomorrow. Just feel this.