He blinks twice before he mutters, “Fuck, yes.” Within seconds he’s crossed the room, and he makes a low, possessive sound as he crushes me against him.
Six years of stifled desire and sexual frustration erupts between us. We devour each other, tongues tasting and sucking. My robe is pushed off my shoulders. His shirt is unbuttoned in record time. Everywhere he touches me, pleasure blooms, lush and bright, and I’m breathless with the power of it. I push him back against the wall, hard. The force of the impact causes a nearby picture frame to crash to the floor. Neither of us spares it a glance. He throws his head back as I cover his chest and stomach with hot kisses, tasting the skin I’ve been able to do nothing but dream about for far too long. His muscles contract in time with his rapid breathing, and he groans when I run my tongue and lips over the delicious planes of his chest. I taste every inch of skin . . . his nipples, his abs. There’s nothing delicate or elegant about what we’re doing. Everything is urgent, hands moving and squeezing, breaths heavy and moans long. We’re so desperate for each other, we’re clumsy and rough.
When I come back to his mouth, he moans against my lips and trails his hands down to my ass. With one swift motion, he lifts me, and when I wrap my legs around him he turns and shoves me up against the bookcase. Books and knickknacks spill noisily onto the floor as we press and grind. I reach behind me and hold on to one of the shelves as he kisses down my neck and teases my nipples. I throw my head back and press my chest up to meet him as his hot, beautiful mouth closes around me.
“Oh, God, Liam . . .”
He works my breasts until I’m clawing at him to give me more. Then, he yanks me away from the bookcase and strides over to the couch, knocking over a vase and a floor lamp on his way. He shoves the coffee table with his foot, and the TV remote and a pile of magazines clatter onto the floor.
“Fuck,” he says, panting. “Sorry.”
“Don’t care,” I say. “Keep going.”
He collapses onto the couch and pulls me forward to straddle him. Every inch of my skin tingles and aches as he traces the curves of my breasts and hips with his fingers.
“God, I’ve missed you,” he whispers against my skin. “This body, your mind, your heart. All of it. Right now, I feel like a kid who’s had his Christmas present on layaway for six years and has finally gotten his hands on it. You’re so freaking perfect, you blow my mind.”
He kisses me again, and his sweet tongue makes me dizzy while his hands set every nerve ending on edge. I can’t wait anymore. The only thing that registers through my haze of hormones is an all-consuming need to have him inside me. To claim him as mine again and have him claim me in return.
I climb off his lap so I can undo his jeans. He helps me by pulling off his shoes and socks. Then he stands so I can work his jeans and underwear down his legs.
When he’s naked, I have to take a moment, because . . . God. Seriously? He’s a walking work of art. If Michelangelo had Liam Quinn as a model, I have no doubt there’d be a whole gallery dedicated to him. Maybe even with a wing just for his spectacular erection.
Liam sits back down on the couch and stares at me with barely restrained desperation. “Come here.”
He pulls me down to straddle him, and I use one hand to align us. I look into his eyes as I slowly sink down.
Oh.
Dear.
God.
Both our mouths drop open. Our eyelids flutter. Simultaneous groans fill the apartment as I rock and tilt until he fills me. When we’re fully joined at last, I gasp, then sigh. How I can feel so incredibly wired and relieved in the same moment is beyond me. This is what I’ve been missing for all of these years. Not just the physical pleasure of having him inside me, but the soul-heart connection that joining with him brings. We stare at each other in wonder, in mutual recognition of the fact that even the most vivid fantasies we’ve had while we’ve been apart pale in comparison to the spine-tingling reality.
“I love you, Liss,” he whispers as he grazes my face with gentle fingers. “I love you so much.”
I kiss him. “I love you, too.”
I clasp my hands behind his neck and start to ride him, keeping eye contact the whole time. He grasps my hips and guides me into long, deep thrusts. The sensation is so intense, it’s almost unbearable. The feel of him. The incredible expression on his face as he watches my every move. Every time I lift my hips he grunts like he’s in pain. When I sink back down, he moans with pleasure. Every movement seems too much for him, and I understand how he feels. After having nothing for so long, suddenly having everything is a shock to the system.
We keep that connection the whole time we make love. Even when I can feel my orgasm building, I don’t look away. Neither does he.