Page 143 of The Clinch
She eases off me and undresses slowly, never taking her eyes off mine. I watch all of it. She’s beautiful, deliberate, unguarded in ways that matter more than nakedness ever could—a woman who has learned to trust my hands and is starting to trust what lives behind them.
Then she strips me down with the same quiet certainty and settles over me again, skin to skin, and the last of my control slips.
“Fuck,” I rasp when I fill my palms with her breasts, gently stroking her hardened nipples.
She groans into my mouth, thighs tightening, rubbing herself over my length in a way that makes my whole body go hot and mean, her nails scraping against my scalp.
My hands lock on her hips, guiding the rhythm. When I take her nipple in my mouth, she arches and rocks against me, chasing friction. I’m too far gone to pretend any of this means something else.
“Leo—”
I look up.
Whatever she was holding back slips.
“Can I have you bare?” she whispers. “I’m safe. I’m on the pill. I just… need to feel you. Nothing between us.”
“Yeah?”
She nods.
“Christ.”
I drag her down into another kiss, rougher this time, because the sound of her asking for me like that takes the last piece of judgment with it.
“Do it,” I manage.
She lifts up, her hand wrapping around me, and the slow stroke nearly finishes me before we’ve started. Then she sinks down, and I have to brace hard not to lose it on the spot.
She sets a pace that favors my left side, hands braced on my shoulders, never looking away. She’s careful even now, and the fact of it hits somewhere I can’t afford to name.
I’ve never felt this good, or this gone.
It builds slowly. Deliberately. Neither of us rushing the edge. I feel every shift, every adjustment, every moment of her choosing to stay.
When she starts to tremble, I hold her hips and steady her, and she gasps my name like it’s the only word she knows.
“Leo—”
“That’s it, Liz. Let go. Let me see you.”
She comes with a cry, and I follow her over, the pleasure washing through me sharp and consuming, erasing the pain, erasing everything but her.
After, she stays where she is, sprawled across my left side, her fingers tracing patterns on my chest that avoid the worst of the bruising. The room is quiet, the light fading, and we both know this isn’t simple anymore.
“Your ribs,” she murmurs, half-asleep.
“Fine.”
“Liar.”
Her fingers keep moving.
I let them.
She’s right. But she’s here, so I don’t care.
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