“Don’t,” he said, the word bursting out of him before he could stop it.
“Don’t what?” she whispered, her eyes wide.
He didn’t have just one answer, he had a thousand.
Silent, he took a condom off the bedside table and slid it on. He could barely touch himself he was so turned on. Whatever was going to happen between them right now was going to be fast and hard.
He felt angry and awful. Which, he figured, was how he should feel. Guilty and miserable.
“Roll over,” he told her.
“What?”
She was too slow, he was too wild, and he lifted her hips and rolled her himself, pulling her up onto her knees. He climbed onto the bed behind her and then held his cock, notching himself against her, slipping through her hot, wet * to get inside.
With a hiss, she pulled forward away from him and he stopped, lifting his hands away from her. But his cock was just inside of her. Waiting.
Carefully, she pushed back against him and then stopped.
Christ, he didn’t want to hurt her. He began to pull out but she reached around and grabbed his thigh, holding him still. “Don’t…” she whispered. “Don’t leave.”
“Jesus Christ, Annie, if it hurts, say it. If you don’t want this, say it.” Their secrets were making a mess of them; all their sharp, jagged edges were out, waiting to hurt each other.
“It…doesn’t hurt.”
“You want this?” he asked, because he wasn’t sure. She was wet and she was hot, but he wasn’t about to take something she didn’t want to give.
“Yes.”
“Say it, Annie. Just fucking say what you want.”
“I want you inside me.”
Her words lit him up but he didn’t push into her.
“Take me,” he said, and then watched as bit by bit she eased back on him.
Slowly he pushed forward until she had every inch of him.
“You ready?” he breathed, and she nodded. Her arms braced against the bed were shaking. His legs were. The bed was trembling under all their restraint.
Slowly he eased back and then forward. And she eased forward and then back and they found a terrible rhythm. Deep and then deeper each time, turning them inside out. He tried not to touch her, but his hands slid over her hips, holding onto her waist. The pressure built in him. A beautiful pressure. Pleasure and pain. Light and dark. Guilt and ecstasy. Grief and happiness.
He was close. Too close and unable to stop. He reached around her, slipping over her bare skin toward her clit, and she grabbed his hand in a grip that was surprisingly strong. Fierce. The rough and raw edges of her calluses and blisters brushed over his. She laced their fingers together.
And somehow that was more intimate than anything else.
Last time, he thought, letting himself absorb the intimacy. Like drinking all the water he could before heading out into the desert.
Last time. Last time.
“Come on,” he growled and shook off her hand, unable to take it. “Fuck. Come, baby.”
And she did. She exploded under him, crying out and falling down on the mattress. She pulled him down with her and he blanketed her. Covered her. And filled her.
Perfect.
The orgasm rocked him.
Crushed him.
And he lay there, heaving against her. Feeling her shake and tremble beneath him.
God, she was so small. He could feel the knobs of her spine against his stomach. The fragile bones of her rib cage against his arms. He could carry her in his pocket.
He wanted to carry her in his pocket.
He’d learned the hard way to keep his wants and desires on a short list. Wanting too much, either one thing or a million, only meant he wouldn’t get it. He was clumsy with fragile things—always trying to hold onto them so hard they broke.
The thought was enough to make him pull out, holding onto the edge of the condom.
He went into the bathroom, dumped the condom, and peed.