Chapter Thirty-Four
Yasmen
This is what they call a moment of truth.
Ever since my last session with Dr. Abrams, I promised myself if I got the chance to show Josiah how I felt, I would. What was the use of retrieving that necklace from the fountain, of not letting go of hope, if I don’t seize the chance to fulfill it?
“And I,” I say, pressing into his hard body, “am touching you.”
He towers over me, looking down through a long sweep of lashes, the muscle in his jaw tensing under the taut brown skin.
“Yas,” he says, the baritone of his voice lower, huskier. “Be careful. Unless you—”
I raise up on my toes and kiss the words right out of his mouth. I’m done being careful and quiet. That route almost lost me this man for good. I plunge my tongue into his mouth, licking into him—hungry, thirsty, parched, starved—and he groans into our kiss. He grips my back, flattening my breasts to his chest. His hands meet at my spine and slide down to my waist and then cup my ass. Without breaking the kiss, he lifts me higher until our hips are flush, and the steel of him presses through the cotton of my dress. I can’t resist slipping my hands between us to feel it for myself.
When I grip him through his pants, he releases my mouth and drops his forehead to mine.
“Yas,” he breathes. “I can’t…You don’t want—”
“I do want.” I nip at his neck with my teeth. “I know what we said, but not one day has gone by when I haven’t thought about that night.”
He goes still, catching my eyes with his and tracing his thumb across my mouth. “Me too.”
Hands encircling my waist, he hauls me up to sit on the counter, legs spread. Standing between my thighs, he pushes the dress up until my legs are bare under his fingers.
“Touch me,” I breathe into his ear and link my wrists behind his neck. “I’m so wet.”
His fingers slide up my thigh, investigating, shoving aside my panties and slipping inside to stroke me. I brace my palms on the counter behind me and let my head fall back. When he pushes one finger in, I cry out, biting my lip to quiet myself. I drop my chin to watch him, meeting the molten darkness of his eyes. Desire is written so clearly there. No guessing. No wondering. He strokes in and out, and brushes his finger over me.
“Oh, God.” I eject the words at the persistent stroke of his fingers.
“You have to be quiet.” He dips to rub his lips over my breasts, and they harden through the layers of my bra and dress.
“I don’t think I can.” My hips roll hard into his touch, and I reach up one hand to grip his neck. “Garage.”
With a terse nod, he pulls me down and drags me by the wrist into the garage. I don’t hesitate, opening the back door of my SUV and climbing in, stretching out. I lift and spread my legs until the dress falls back. With a guttural sound in his throat, he pulls me to the edge of the seat, drags my panties down and off. The air is cool against my heat, against my wetness, and I shiver from the cold air and the anticipation. His head disappears beneath the hem of my dress, and the first swipe of his tongue makes me twist and buck against his mouth.
I brace one palm against the leather seat and stretch to cup his head with the other, spreading my thighs wider, offering him everything. Not just my body. My pain, my sorrow, my contrition, my past and all that lies ahead. Whether he knows it or not, I’m giving it all to him. He laps at me like a man dying of thirst.
“I want you,” I gasp. “Si. Please.”
“Not yet.” He licks me top to bottom, peeling me back and sucking. “So damn good. God, I missed this, Yas.”
The orgasm storms through me, and I can’t hold the sobs back. They shake my body, and it’s not just a physical release. It frees my soul, my heart. Everything locked away, imprisoned, flies loose, takes off. I bite my fist to keep from screaming.
“Please fuck me. Si, please.”
He answers with the jangle of his belt, with the hiss of his zipper, with the blunt pressure at the entrance to my body. He pauses, lifting up the slightest bit, catching my eyes in the car’s interior light.
He cups my face in his hand. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
I wrap my legs around him, link ankles at the small of his back and pull him closer. He eases in, feeding himself into me by inches, and it’s excruciating and perfect, giving my body time to know him again. My muscles clamp around him, and he hisses through his teeth. Once he’s in to the hilt, our hips flush, he rests his weight on his elbows, breathing labored.
“I can’t go slow,” he pants over my lips. “I want you too much.”
“Don’t go slow. Don’t hold back.”
My words snap the chain restraining him and he braces one hand on the window behind us, and grabs my leg with the other, pushing my knee back to my shoulder, drilling in deeper, his pace so ferocious, the car rocks. The force of it with every thrust knocks the air from me. I’ll feel this when we’re done. He wasn’t lying. It’s rough, a deprived man’s possession. And I take every bit of it as my due. He’s mine, and even as he’s plowing into me, sweat on his brow and dampening his back through the shirt, I’m sweeping my hands over the slope of his shoulders, the dance of muscle and sinew under taut skin, the ridges in his abdomen. Reminding each part to whom it belongs. The slide and squeeze of our bodies creates the cadencehome, home, home, him, him, him. It’s an overwhelming intimacy, and tears gather at the corners of my eyes because he feels so right inside me again.