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Fearful of yearning and wanting and need.
But now…I gave myself over to it.
I quivered and craved and rocked my hips, pressing myself deeper onto Henri’s hardness.
“Fuck.” His hands clamped on the top of my thighs, stilling me. “Stop it.”
“No.”
“You’re hurt.”
“I don’t feel it.”
“I’m not doing this. Not while you’re injured—”
“You’re injured too.” I nipped at his sharp cheekbone.
He drew his head back.
He fell into silent darkness—tumbling into a place I couldn’t follow.
No…
Come back.
“Kiss me.” Pressing my hands against his slightly clammy cheeks, I pulled him close.
I wanted a repeat of that kiss back in our room.
I wanted to see him shatter as badly as he had the moment our tongues touched.
“No—”
“Yes.” I pressed my lips to his.
He froze.
His hands spasmed on my thighs as if I’d deleted all his keen intelligence and replaced it with staticky-white noise.
“Kiss me, Hen,” I breathed against his mouth, licking his plump, slightly too-hot lower lip.
I wanted him to snap.
I needed him to take control.
But a guttural groan rose from the depths of him, and with an almost pitiful whimper, he pushed me away.
He didn’t speak, but I felt him.
Felt his need.
Felt so drawn to him, bound to him, stitched to him.
After living in fear for so long, this stolen moment felt infinitely precious and wonderful.
Falling on him again, I kissed my way along his jaw. I gave him truth and vulnerability because in that moment, both were needed. Both were lifelines to keep him present. “I need you inside me. I need you.”
“Jesus Christ.” He let loose a string of filthy French. “The doctor will castrate me if she finds out I touched you while you’re like this.”
