Page 53 of Bonds of Obsession

19

QUINN

His mouth crashesagainst mine and the rest of the world fades away. The kiss is hard and demanding, but it’s not enough. My hands find his shoulders, his back, his biceps, desperate to touch every part of him after being kept away for so long.

To think there was a possibility that I might have never again run my hands along the hard planes of his chest or inhaled the woodsy, slightly citrus scent that’s so uniquely his… fuck, it makes me want to be that much closer to him now.

I know we can’t make up for lost time, but I think we both need this—hard and fast and reckless—on a basic, almost cellular level that neither of us can fully understand in this moment.

He rolls me onto my back, ignoring his own injuries as the bed creaks and groans under our combined weight, and settles between my legs. A primal, animalistic groan rumbles up from his chest. I’m not sure if it’s pain or pleasure that’s causing it, but the sound is just another reminder that he’s here, that this is really happening, that I don’t have to fucking hope and pray and dream about him coming home anymore.

He reaches down between my legs and growls as he slips a finger inside me. “Fuck, you’re always so wet for me. You want more of this, don’t you? Want me to fuck you hard?”

The roughness of his hands as he adds a second finger, along with the grit and gravel in his voice, trigger something in my brain. Something that allows me to give up some of the control that I’m usually so protective over.

There are only three people who can trigger that response, and they’re all here under the same roof with me.

Thank fuck.

“Yes,” I answer without hesitating, without even thinking. “Fuck, yes. I need your fingers. I need your cock. Need you.”

Every touch feels like lightning against my skin. The familiar calluses on his fingers, the heat of his breath against my neck, the weight of him pressing me into the mattress—it’s sensory overload, but in the best possible way.

My body remembers him, remembers all the things I love about him even though I’ve probably done a shitty job of expressing just how much all those little things mean to me.

I have to hope he understands, and that he can read my body and mind just as well as I can read his.

He pulls his fingers away, but I barely have time for an involuntary, needy whimper before he’s replaced them with the thick, blunt head of his cock.

“Yes,” I repeat, lifting my hips off the mattress in an impatient effort to get him inside me. “That’s it. Right there. More.”

The words feel inadequate. Need doesn’t begin to cover this bone-deep ache, this frantic desperation to crawl inside his skin. My nails rake down his back, needing to mark him, to prove he’s real and solid and here.

There’s no slow burn, no gentle build. Just Atlas sliding balls deep into me and then pulling all the way out to do it over andover again. His thrusts are wild and strong and almost painful, but that’s exactly what my own body has been craving.

I’ve always needed a little pain to numb the rest of my senses, and this time is no different. I might be numbing happiness instead of sadness, but that also takes away the anxiety and vulnerability and potential heartbreak that go right along with that happiness.

It’s almost too much. The thrust of his hips, the pounding of my heart, the rush of blood in my ears—it’s too intense, like my body might burst from the sheer force of the pleasure.

And still, it’s not nearly enough.

My fingers dig into his back, scratching lines into his skin, and he growls at the sting, the tiny pinpricks of pain that make the pleasure so much more satisfying.

I’m not sure how long we keep this pace, but eventually, I’m gasping for breath and my chest is heaving as I struggle to keep up.

“Wait—stop,” I pant, pressing against the wall of muscle on top of me to try to slow him down. “You’re… you’re hurt. We need to slow down before you bust a stitch and I have a heart attack.”

All he does is shake his head, barely breaking his frantic rhythm. “Don’t care. I need you. Fuck, I need to feel you come all over my cock.”

How can I argue with that? The rational part of my brain is screaming at me, telling me this is wrong and lecturing me on how much more recovery time he’s going to need because of these fleeting minutes of pleasure.

But for once, I don’t give a fuck about being rational or practical or smart. Instead, I move my hands back down to grip his hips and urge him on.

The rhythm finally falters for a moment as he pulls out, but it’s only so he can reposition himself, lifting my legs over hisshoulders and plunging back into me with a rush that takes my breath away. I’m exposed, completely at his mercy, and I surrender to the feeling, giving myself over to the unrestrained, unguarded pleasure.

It’s different from last night—those slow, careful movements and all the care we took with his wounds—but it’s just as intense, if not more so.

Last night was close and passionate and intimate.

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