What He Left Behind(38)

I shove him back against the counter, and he doesn’t miss a beat—he’s got handfuls of my shirt, and he’s using them to hold me to him, grinding his hips against mine. His shirt falls away, and it probably hits the floor, but it could’ve ceased to exist for all I know or care because now my palms are against his hot flesh. I grab on to him, I dig my nails in, I hold him close so there’s as much skin touching skin as possible. I can’t even concentrate on kissing him, but I damn sure try. Ian’s all over the place too, breathing hard and grabbing on wherever his hands happen to land.

“Jesus. Fuck foreplay,” I murmur between kisses. “We need to f*ck.”

Without a word, he grabs my hips, roughly turns me around, and now I’m the one up against the counter. He fumbles with my belt for a second and then shoves my jeans and boxers over my hips. My heart’s going crazy now. Yes, yes. Fuck me. The sound of his zipper makes me shiver. I grip the counter’s edge, digging my teeth into my lip. Fuck me now!

Ian reaches past me. Something rattles. Something topples. Then he grabs a bottle and pulls it back to him, and I catch a fleeting glimpse of it.

Was that…olive oil?

Oh hell, I don’t care what it is. I bite my lip, trying to stay standing, stay sane, stay breathing. I don’t care what he’s using as long as—

Ian presses his slick cock against my ass, and my mind goes blank. As soon as the head slides into me, Ian doesn’t hold back. He forces himself in, and I’d moan if I could breathe at all. With no prep or stretching, the burn is intense. I shove myself back against him, searching for more, desperately trying to drive him all the way inside me. It burns, it makes my eyes water, and I need more. More. More.

Ian presses his lips to the side of my neck, and every hot breath he releases rushes past my skin. I brace a hand against the cabinet and try to push back against him, but he’s got me pinned against the counter, and I can barely move.

“Just stay like that,” he pants. “Let me…let me…”

Oh, I let him. I hold myself in place as much as I can, and he slams into me again and again, pounding me so hard, it’s deliciously painful. I’m begging him not to stop. Or at least I think I am. I want to. Whether my mouth can form the words is another matter. Still, he must know what I want, or maybe he’s just so far gone himself that all he wants to do is try to force himself deeper and deeper.

My knees are going to tremble right out from under me. My hand slips off the cabinet. I drop onto my elbows, letting my head fall forward, and I distantly hear myself cry out, and without even touching myself, I come, driven on and on by Ian’s powerful thrusts. He grunts, and he thrusts so hard, the edge of the counter bites into my hipbones, and he holds me there, pinning me in place as his cock pulses inside me. “Fuck,” he breathes, and one last shudder goes through him.

Thank God for the counter. As we tremble and catch our breath, it’s about the only thing keeping us both from melting to the floor.

He pulls out and then kisses the base of my neck. “Go get in the shower. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Speech isn’t possible, so I just nod and make a half-assed attempt at fixing my clothes. My legs are shaky and my head’s still spinning, but I manage to get upstairs to the master bedroom. I strip out of my clothes, clean some of the oil off my skin, and then do as I’m told—into the shower.

I don’t know how long it’s been since we’ve had spontaneous sex like that. A blowjob here and there, maybe, but full-on f*cking that can’t even wait until we find actual lube? Oh God. We need to do that more often.

A few minutes after I get in the shower, Ian joins me, and it’s instantly clear that he’s not at all interested in stopping. Though we’re making a somewhat concerted effort to get clean, his lips are on me almost constantly—on my neck, my shoulders, my mouth. His hands are everywhere, sliding over wet skin and digging nails in now and then to make me gasp. I love it when he gets like this. When he’s demanding and insatiable and utterly f*cking relentless. After all the fraught, uneasy sex I’ve had with Michael lately, I need this. I need to remember what it’s like to just let go with someone who can let go.

Ian turns off the shower. We dry off—sort of—and then tumble into bed. God, he feels good—hot skin against mine, his cock hardening again, his lips skating across my neck and collarbone. Yeah, he’s definitely not done. And neither am I. I don’t care if I can function tomorrow—I want everything he’s willing to give me tonight. We’re both hard, and panting, and grinding together, and clawing at each other.

Then Ian reaches for the nightstand. “Knees.”

“’kay.”

We’re down to single syllables. I’m surprised either of us is that articulate.

I’ve barely gotten myself situated before Ian’s against me, and then he’s inside me, and he’s f*cking me again, slamming into me painfully deep and hard, and I can’t get enough. My elbows falter, then collapse under me, and I drop onto my forearms as my husband f*cks me exactly the way I love it. Exactly the way I’ve been needing it and didn’t even know it. It’s just us tonight, no one from the past or the present in between us—it’s him, and me, and the violent, bed-shaking sex we’ve had since day one.

“Harder,” I whimper. “F-f*ck me harder.”