Page 90 of Branded By Shadow
I turn my face into the comforter. “Bossy menace.”
“Husband.”
That one still gets me.
Every time.
I hear his zipper.
My pulse turns wild.
His hand slides between my thighs, finding me already wet, because apparently my body has no pride where this man is concerned.
A rough sound leaves him.
“Always ready for me.”
“Smug,” I whisper.
“Accurate.”
He pushes two fingers inside me, slow and deep, and my knees nearly forget their purpose.
“Jayce.”
“What do you need?”
“You.”
“You have me.”
“Then move.”
His fingers leave me. A second later, he grips my hips and pushes into me in one hard, deep thrust that steals the air from my lungs.
The sound I make disappears into the bedding.
He goes still behind me, buried all the way, breathing rough against my shoulder.
“Mine,” he says.
Three years ago, that word would have scared me.
Now it steadies me.
Now it is home.
“Yours,” I whisper.
That breaks whatever patience he had left.
He pulls back and drives into me again, rougher this time, his grip hard on my hips as he sets a rhythm that makes my hands twist in the comforter. Every thrust fills me deep. Every drag of him through me sends heat sparking low and sharp until my whole body feels like it belongs to his hands, his mouth, his voice.
I grip the bedding.
He grips me.
And even like this, even with his control fraying and his body powerful behind mine, he holds me like something precious.
