Page 101 of Wait for Him

I hold his gaze and run my thumb along his cheek. “I love you too, Jackson. I’ve always loved you too.”

His eyes flutter closed, and he rests his forehead against mine. For a second neither of us moves. Then a tear hits my cheek.

Before I can look at him properly, he buries his face in my neck.

I don't say anything. I let him hide and just kiss his shoulder, then his neck, and slide my fingers into the hair at the back of his head, holding him there while he gets himself together.

And for once, I don't argue with the word that settles into me.

Mine.

He lifts his head and moves his mouth against mine. His lips are salty from his tears, and there's a quiet intensity to it that pulls a shuddering exhalation from my lungs. He breathes it in like it's his.

I let out a soft moan, and it unleashes him.

The softness of the moment is gone as his fingers roughly grip my face, deepening the kiss. We're starving for each other. That’s the only way to put it.

Another wave of desperate ache claws through me, and I use my feet to shove his shorts and briefs down his thighs until I feel the slap of his cock on my stomach.

The sound that rips out of his throat isn't a word. It’s feral, and there’s something so primal about the way he’s touching me.

I can barely function. My bones have left the building. I reach between us and wrap my hand around his length, and his whole body jerks like I pulled a wire loose.

Our night together all those years ago was one night and gone — he was a boy with a box of condoms and a dream. The man braced above me now is something else entirely, and I'm salivating to feel him.

"Are you sure?" His voice has gone to gravel. He's holding himself so still I can feel him vibrating with it, every muscle locked, waiting on my word.

Even now. Even like this. He waits for my word.

Fuck. I'm in so much trouble.

I lift my hips until the head of his cock grazes my entrance.

"So. Fucking. Sure."

He kisses me slowly as he starts to ease in. I open my thighs wider, but the plain fact is he's a lot of man and it's been a long time. We managed this once before, but somehow he feels massive now, and my breath stutters as my body fights the stretch.

My eyes squeeze shut.

"I've got you, baby." His lips brush mine. "Relax for me. You were made for me. You've always been mine." Another kiss. Another inch. He works into me slow and patient, murmuring against my mouth the whole way, until finally, finally, he's fully seated, and we both go still.

"God." It comes out a gasp. "I don't remember feeling this full before."

"You're good for my ego, old lady."

My mouth drops open in mock outrage, and he laughs — actually laughs, buried to the hilt inside me — then pulls out, plunges back in, and turns my indignation into a scream.

"Fuck, you're so tight."

"You feel so good," I slur, too far gone to manage anything smarter.

He shifts his hips, rolls back, thrusts in again. Now that he’s inside of me, he’s so careful and controlled. His entire body is shuddering with the effort, and I know exactly what he's doing. He's on top, and he thinks that this time is borrowed. He's holding back. We've learned a lot about each other since the last time we were together like this, and I hate that he's treating me like I'm fucking fragile.

I don't want careful.

I reach up and put my palm against his face.

"Look at me, Jackson."