Page 105 of How To Tempt A Bodyguard

She gave back as good as she got.

Her fingers tore at his coat, shoving it from his shoulders. He yanked at her shawl, sent it flying into the darkness. Buttons scattered as they attacked each other's clothes, neither willing to break the kiss.

"I couldn't." He gasped the words against her mouth. "Three weeks… couldn't stand it."

"I know." She was crying, she realised. Tears streaming down her cheeks even as she kissed him. "I know, I know."

"Dreamed about you…" His voice cracked. "Every night, woke up reaching for you."

"Me too." She finally got his shirt open, pressed her palms flat against his chest, felt his heart pounding beneath her hands. "Every night. Matthew…"

"I love you." The words tore out of him, raw and unpolished. "I should have said it before. I should have said it every day. Love you, Florence."

She sobbed against his mouth. "I love you too. I love you, I love you."

His hands found the fastenings of her dress, worked them free with a roughness that would leave bruises. She didn't care. Wanted the bruises. Wanted the marks of his hands on her body, proof that he'd been here, that this was real.

The dress fell. Her corset followed, laces torn. She stood before him in nothing but her shift, shivering in the cold barn air, burning everywhere his gaze touched.

"Off." His voice was gravel. Command and plea in a single word.

She pulled the shift over her head and let it drop.

He made a sound, something between a groan and a prayer, and then his hands were on her, mapping her body, like he might never touch her again.

"Turn around," he rasped.

She obeyed. Heard him unfastening his trousers. Felt the heat of him against her back, the hard length of him pressing against her.

His hand splayed across her stomach, drawing her back against him. His other hand slid between her thighs, found her already slick with want.

"Hell, I’ve been wanting this," he growled against her ear.

"Then take it." She pushed back against him. "Take me."

He bent her forward over a hay bale, one hand steadying her hip, and pushed inside.

Florence cried out. The stretch was sudden, overwhelming, perfect. He filled her completely, thick and hard, his hips flush against her backside.

"Alright?" His voice was strained with the effort of holding still.

"Move. Matthew, please."

He moved.

He drove into her with punishing force, each thrust pushing a cry from her throat. His fingers dug into her hips hard. His breath came in harsh pants against the back of her neck.

She loved it. Loved the rawness of it, the desperation, the proof that he'd missed her as much as she'd missed him. Loved the way his control shattered against her, the way he stopped trying to be careful and just took.

Then he pulled out.

She gasped at the sudden emptiness. "What—"

He turned her around, lifted her onto the hay bale, and dropped to his knees.

"Need to taste you." His voice was wrecked. "Need to feel you come."

Before she could respond, his tongue was on her.