Rhys couldn’t articulate the change in Jenna, only that her demeanor now was different to their encounter days earlier at her home. The slight forward roll of her shoulders. The dip of her chin. Her peering up at him with a softer-than-ever look in her eyes.
The Mirabelle River lapped a muted symphony around them, and the weak breeze pushed loose tendrils of wet hair from her face—her hair only wet because she’d jumped into the river meaning to save him.
Now, the small upward tick of her lip resonated the question she’d just posed to him.
Maybe you could save me?
His hands still clasped her wrist, and he pulled her in, no longer hesitating to kiss her.
For once, she wasn’t playing. She’d tried to save him. Been genuinely afraid for his safety. She cared. Jenna Finnemore cared. And she cared for him.
And seeming to prove that point, she pried her hands from his and draped her arms around his shoulders, pressing her body against his and pulling him in.
Maybe their past wasn’t a lost cause. Just a reminder of a spark that never died.
Wanting to stoke the flames, he swept his hands lower and down to her thighs, lifting her until her legs wrapped tight around his waist. Just the feel of her—the soft brush of her lips, the pressure of her body around his—had him pulling her from the riverbank on a fast march toward his home.
A light chuckle escaped her, and he maneuvered them up the porch stairs, her arms locking tighter around him as though she figured he might drop her.
But he’d shouldered far heavier loads than her and shouldered her some more. Into his house. Up more stairs. Into his bathroom. Where he started the shower, allowing the water to heat, while he placed a row of condoms on the shower shelf, and then went about relieving her of her sodden clothes.
And her clothes went, and soon, so did his. And this time, he was prepared. He would have her. He’d have her with the intention of keeping her because that’s exactly what he wanted.
In pure Jenna style, she didn’t shy from exploring his body, her hands sweeping the plains of his chest, her bare skin pressed to his while her fingertips paused at the thick scar on his shoulder. Her gaze lifted to meet his.
Questions. So many questions there. Her deep brown eyes asked each one with no words spoken, only for her lips to find his again, as though she reconciled that any conversation on his past could wait.
He walked her backward, past the open glass doors, and into the cloud of steam rising from the double-size shower, his lips not leaving hers through the entire journey. He’d kiss away the questions. Let the rapid fall of water wash away every bad memory. Water that added a scintillating gloss to her golden skin.
He wanted to touch her everywhere all at once, his hands sweeping the dip of her waist and up to the welcoming softness of each breast. But it was Jenna who found the bottle of soap first, like she too struggled to keep her hands to herself. And why should she?
She took a half step back and made a slow performance of squeezing soap into her palm, her stare catching his, along with the mischievous upward curve of her mouth. That drawn-out tease was pure Jenna, and pure torture, and her unhurried application of suds over his chest had his head lolling back at her touch.
For the first time in days, he saw the value in Miss Finnemore’s direct approach. Never backward about being forward. The joy she seemed to get from torturing him. Well, he could do unrepentant torment too. He seized the soap bottle from her hand and went about working bubbles over her skin—starting at her collarbone, then down the dip between her breasts, all while she unashamedly touched him in return.
A soft moan spilled from her lips. She tilted her head back, leaving an opening for him to kiss the long arch of her neck, to move his hands down the flat of her stomach and between the juncture of her thighs.
Her hands cupped his face, and she pulled his lips back to hers, sinking against him, like for once in her life she actually wanted his support.
Her touch mirrored his now, her hand finding his sex, her grip tightening as she slid her palm up and down his length. Warmth flooded his body. His heart felt fit to explode, but the trade of hungry kisses and maddening contact lasted for the longest time. And somehow, he continued living.
Her pure command over him. A thing that had clearly grown in the years apart. Brought him closer and closer to the edge of losing himself. But he couldn’t do that, not just yet. He’d mapped an agenda for this woman. An intoxicating mix of good intentions and erotic exchanges…
* * *
Never before had Jenna felt so wanted. Nor had she ever wanted anyone so much. Eleven years. Eleven years of believing her hotter memories of Rhys boiled down to nothing but youthful angst and naivety. But this moment under his shower came as an irksome revelation. She’d been wrong. Despite years of chasing that same euphoria with other men, this one man returned to leave her more desperate than ever.
Even though his hands swept all over her, she still ached for more of his touch. As if to read her desire, he stole her breath with another deep kiss and lifted her, pinning her to the tile at her back with a satisfying thud.
She tilted her chin up and clung to him, allowing his rain of kisses to wander down her neck. Even as he did so, the rustle of a condom wrapper filled her ears, building her expectations until his first thrust into her. Hot. Hard. Unforgiving.
A sharp gasp tore through her chest, and her heart swelled more than her lungs. How long it had been since he’d given her this. Now that he did, her gasp exhaled on a thick cry. A cry of pleasure. A cry of heartbreak.
As much as she played the careless vixen, she had real feelings too. And this encounter, it pulled at every one. Highlighting all she’d missed. Her bond with him.
She enveloped him now, her arms and legs drawing him tight, and he reciprocated with the sweet press of his body against hers. He was in her. All around her. His punishing thrusts sending a secret message. That this was something more to him too.
She lifted her hands and raked her fingers through his thick, dark hair, tugging him into a prolonged kiss while he worked at her pleasure. Her pulse grew faster, and she sought relief on a low moan.
His gravelly groan brushed her neck in reply, his expression of arousal drawing from her a soft whisper. “More.”
He plowed into her, increasing his speed, sending a hot sensation through her body that left her overwhelmed and fit to burst. From the power in his movements, to the exhilaration of having him oblige her demands.
She shut her eyes and raked her fingers down the back of his neck and onto his wide shoulders. “More.”
She’d never been so overtly bossy, but his wicked chuckle said he liked this part of her.
“Jenna.” Her name turned his laugh to a weak plea.
But she wasn’t compelled to give him mercy, and she got the sense he didn’t truly want it, either. “More.”
He picked up speed, and she accepted his each and every brutal thrust. Tortured with pleasure, though she fanned the flames. And fan she did as she pressed her lips to his earlobe and kissed him there, curling her short nails into his shoulder blades before whispering again, “More, Rhys. I want more.”
He groaned, his breaths rushing one after another. “If I do that, I’ll come.”
She kissed him farther—on his neck, and then his jaw-line—releasing unrestrained sighs every time he pounded into her. Soon, she gifted him a soft laugh. Another tease. Before bringing her lips to his ear and dealing her final blow. “So then, come.”
His growl was less low and languid, now more a fiery protest. He shifted her. Lifted her. Shoved her into the wall out of lust-filled retaliation.
Everything happened so fast after that. His strong hands gripped her hips, and his long fingers dug hard into her flesh. He left no room for escape and hammered into her with a firm and relentless pace.
She could feel his need. His desperation. Feel her nerves bursting to life at every forceful thing he did to her. She spurred him on. Arching against him and relishing this dizzying build with a long moan that morphed into a guttural cry.
She’d spent years secretly yearning for this moment.
He pushed into her one more time, burying himself deep and finding release right along with her. Soon, his forehead settled on hers, and a harmony of heavy breaths filled the aftermath.
Soft pain took up space in her chest, leaving her limbs weak and her face overly hot with a need to weep. The moment was over. Now what?
A slow realization grew in her mind, not just that she’d missed him, but that her requests for “more” went far beyond sex. She wanted more. More him. More time with him. A great part of the younger woman who’d loved him was still alive and craving his affection. Even if wanting him wasn’t good for her. She wanted all the same.
He pulled back and withdrew, his hands soon finding hers as he dragged her back under the shower’s soothing stream.
“Now that’s done”. He dropped a quick kiss to her uncharacteristically speechless lips, his eyes glittering with joy, just like the young man she’d first fallen in love with. A man aware of his effect on her. “Towel off. I’m taking you to bed.”