I was undeniably attracted to him. But the connection went so much deeper. When he exhaled, my lungs gulped. When he swallowed, my mouth dried. When he blinked, my entire body stilled. And it wasn’t just me.
Everything I did—every breath, heart beat, and word—resulted in consequences and obligations for him. If I ran, he would follow. If I died, he would grieve. If I kissed him, he would harden, lengthen, and groan.
It had been a series of mutual actions that bound us together, and it would take a single concerted blow to permanently tear us apart.
Without breaking eye contact, I put one foot before the other and began an unhurried approach.
Surprise flashed in his gaze, his body stiff with suspicion. He’d expected me to torture him with infidelity, not return to him alone, wearing only his shirt, and stepping within arm’s reach.
He sat with his back against the wall and legs stretched out before him, frozen. His mouth opened, possibly to ask what I was doing. But it snapped shut as he regarded me, seemingly finding the answer in my expression.
Desire flushed my skin, and I parted my lips. Tiny spasms overwhelmed the juncture of my legs, his shirt pulling across my breasts with my quickening breaths. I let him see every reaction he roused in me—my hunger, my vulnerability, the endless ache to mate with no one but my husband.
My body would give me the leverage I needed with him. If not today, then with another man in front of him. I counted on that. And dreaded it.
A water bucket for washing sat near his foot. I kicked it, sending it skidding and sloshing out of the reach of his chain. Then I stepped over him and planted my bare feet on either side of his hips.
His hands instantly went to my ankles, sparking a delicious fever across my skin as they slid upward, caressing the backs of my calves, behind my knees, and beneath the hem of the shirt.
Heat rolled off him in waves, his gaze never leaving mine. A lump constricted my airway, and my strength abandoned me.
I sank onto his lap, straddling him, and God help me, he felt like home.
He gripped the laces of the shirt and hauled me into him, angling for my lips. I turned my head, and his mouth caught the corner of mine, lingering, panting soundlessly.
Neither of us moved, stunned by the excruciating touch. Or perhaps fearful the slightest shift would sever it.
Heart pulsations beat by. His exhales soaked my lips. My hands locked on his shoulders. Rock-hard thighs supported my bottom, and his shirtless torso pressed in, making me warm all over.
He rested his brow against mine, and our noses slid together, side by side, affectionately nudging.
Fingers touched my face. Four points of contact curving around my cheek. Assertive warmth searing my skin. I wanted nothing more than to melt into him.
So much of my life had been submerged in sadness. Loneliness in my childhood, grief over losing my parents, Priest’s devastating perfidy—all of it lay waste to my emotions and shaped my darkest dreams.
I ached for every minuscule portion of affection my husband was willing to dole out. Pathetic.
My thoughts swam in a nebulous jumble as the impulse to devour him battled the instinct to bash his head against the wall. But the moment his lips kissed a languid path across mine, I was ensnared.
He plunged deep into my mouth, hunting my tongue and humming a voracious groan. Pleasure coiled. Madness threatened, and my inner muscles clenched in a shuddering frenzy.
His hand collared my neck, and the other palmed my backside, yanking me against the grind of his pelvis. The feverish sensation coaxed a moan from my throat, and the sensual roll of his hips dragged my focus to the source of all our misery—his heavy, swollen cock.
Awareness that he was my husband flooded my logic. My nose knew his scent. My tongue knew his taste. My hands recognized the soft texture of his hair, and my body sang in invitation, heating and growing slick with need.
He broke the kiss to put his mouth at my ear. “You’re so hungry, my beautiful girl. So responsive.”
The roughened texture of his accent shoved me to the brink of orgasm. God’s wounds, how I missed his heated words, the whisper of them across my flesh in the throes of passion.
His hands moved, roving beneath the shirt and unerringly finding the deep scar on my belly. His fingers shook as they traced the