“Never,” he growled.
He pushed up onto his knees, then grabbed my thighs and tilted my hips up to meet him, pound for unmerciful pound. His hands gripped hard enough I knew they would leave bruises, and yet I urged him on, rocking upward, reaching overhead to grab the iron rods of my headboard, and shouting my desire into the night, sure it and he would swallow me whole.
Suddenly, he pulled out and flipped me over onto my front, hips yanked back as he drove into me with ruthless precision. He took harsh handfuls of my backside, kneading and slapping as if he were shaping me into one of his culinary masterpieces.
“Fucking hell,” he barked as his thumb tickled just around the last, undiscovered part of me, only a few inches from where he currently resided.
He wanted more. I could tell he wanted more. But he was still afraid to ask for it.
“Do it,” I ordered sharply, more on instinct than anything else. “I mean it, Xavi. All of me. I belong to you.”
In response, his groan practically shook the room. His hand darted back to his mouth, and when it returned, I shivered in pleasure as his finger pressed against my delicate rosette.
He paused, pulling out so that his cock was only an inch or so inside me, throbbing at the entrance of my pussy. Then, at an excruciatingly slow pace, he pressed back in while his thumb made the same journey at my ass. Inch by delectable inch, he entered both parts of me at once. Taking me everywhere. Worshipping all of me.
The feel of that slow, purposeful penetration in not one but two places was too much to bear. Then, slipping a hand over my hip, he located my clit, essentially trapping my pelvis with the power of his fingers for a few final thrusts until, on a shout, I exploded under him.
“Xavier!” I called, clawing at my pillow, trying to escape the shocks overwhelming me, yet internally begging that they would never stop.
“Francesca!” he roared, taking a few final, utterly brutal thrusts.
We shook together on my small bed so hard I thought the entire house might crumble around us. At last, his hands left me as he fell forward, pressing me into the mattress while he emptied himself inside me.
“Francesca.” This time it was a depleted moan, not a shout, directed into the crook of my shoulder, his breath warm against my neck.
For a few moments longer, we just lay together, sharing breath and sweat and the glow that remains even after the throes of ecstasy subside.
Then he pushed himself up and pulled out, gently rolling me over so I was facing him once more.
“I love you,” he said as he pressed kisses to my lips, cheeks, chin, and eyes. “Do you believe it?”
Still caught in my post-coital daze, I nodded. “Yes, I believe it.”
“Then the next time you want to run away into one of your books because you’re scared, will you tell me so I can remind you again?” His hips pressed forward, informing me just how he intended to do that.
I smiled against his lips. “Yes, I will.”
“Good,” he said as he buried his face into my neck. “Because I meant what I said earlier too. I just don’t work without you, Ces. I’ve been trying for too long. I don’t like who I’ve become.”
I sighed, wrapping my arms around his shoulders. “It goes both ways, my love.”
He pressed up onto his forearms. “Do you really mean that? You’ve never said it. I don’t want to force you, but…”
He drifted off, uncertainty playing over his strong features as his eyes darted over my face, unwilling to meet mine.
I blinked in confusion, retracing my words from earlier. Between quoting Charlotte Brontë and crying my fears, was it possible I hadn’t actually told the man the truth that lay deep in my heart?
I looked back at him, begging his blue eyes to meet my own, wanting to dive into them, swim in them, and let him feel every emotion pulsing through me, emotions he inspired.
But for now, I had only words.
My words.
Simple and true.
So I gave them up.
“I love you,” I told him honestly.
And meant it with all my heart.