Page 59 of Body Check

With a finger to my collarbone, he gently tips me backward like a set of Dominos teetering over in submission. My stomach goes concave when I land on my elbows, one leg dangling over the car’s grill, the other bent at a ninety-degree angle on the hood. I’m exposed—or as exposed as one can be in the dark of night—and that’s when he makes his move.

Two of his fingers dragging through my wetness, circling at my entrance, pushing inside on a slow, easy glide.

I’m not sure which one of us is louder: my satisfied moan or his guttural groan.

In this moment, I exist on every thrust of those fingers, drawing life when they curl just so and have me seeing stars.Probably literal stars, given the time of day.

Probably.

Maybe also some fake ones.

“Christ, you’re so damn tight, Holls.”

Ifeelimpossibly tight. But the friction of his big body leveraging over mine as he bolsters his weight on the hand planted by my head, his feet still planted on the concrete, his hard-on grazing my belly . . . God, when was the last time I felt so full? So absolutely complete?

Tears prick my eyes at the thought.

It’s more than just the sex or the good feels. I’ve missedthis. Jackson. The way we read each other’s wants and needs before we even voice them out loud. How he knows exactly how to curl his fingers to have me shuddering before him. How, when he knows I’m close, there’s nothing I love more than for him to slip in that third finger, just so I can feel that added pressure—that acute line between pleasure and pain—that thrusts me over the edge into completion.

He teases me with that possibility now, and I beg shamelessly for it.

I wriggle my hips, popping them up off the hood of the car. “Now, Jackson,” I whimper, “please.”

“Not happening.” He removes his hand completely from between my legs, palm pressing down on my pelvis to keep me in place. Then he leans in close, our noses grazing, his eyes locked on mine when he grinds out, “You’re not comin’ on my fingers, not after all this time.”

“If you leave me hanging like this, I’ll seriously—”

“Who said anything about leaving you hanging?” He plucks the condom from my hand, tearing open the foil with his teeth. Rolling the latex over his length down to the base, he hooks his hands under my ass and lifts me farther up the car. His cock lines up with my opening, the thick crown taunting me with all the possibilities of what’s to come—of what I’ve missed with this man over the last year. “No, sweetheart,” he whispers against my ear, voice rough, breath warm, “you’re goin’ to come all over my cock. Any objections?”

I swallow. Lick my dry lips. “Not a one.”

“There’s my girl.”

He grins, wickedly, and then delivers on his promise: he thrusts home.

And, God, that’sexactlyhow it feels in this moment. Like he’s come home. Like we were always meant to be despite the divorce and the heartache and the coexisting like strangers. My heart wrenches with each drive of his hips, my breath shaky on each exhalation.

Don’t hurt me, my heart whispers when he cradles the back of my head to protect it from bouncing against the car.

Hold me tighter,my heart yearns when he slicks his free hand over the crease of my hip bone to keep me in position.

I’ve missed you so much.

That last thought takes hold of my brain as I cling to his arms while he powers into me. I hold onto this man as he changes his angle, hitting me just right, the ambient moon casting his face in shadows and light, illuminating his narrowed eyes and parted mouth and the thin, white scar on his cheekbone where he had reconstructive surgery.

I’ve missed you.

He snakes a hand between our slick bodies to find my clit.

I’ve missed you.

He applies pressure, circling in quick, rapid circles that wind me tight, tight, tight until my back bows and my hold on his arms turns into nails scraping down his broad back.

I’ve missed you.

“You’re beautiful to me,” he growls, “so damn beautiful.”

The pleasure coils tighter, and with a gasp, I come just like that.

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