Amelia rubbed her cheek against his. “No more waiting.”
Her fingers worked the fly of his pants until she freed him. For two labored breaths, she held him, her fingers enclosing him like a cool silken glove. Then she stroked and he lost his footing for a second.
He braced a hand against the table behind her. Her lips curved in a knowing smile that she grazed along his neck, up to nip his earlobe.
Reaching behind her, she groped along the table until she located the condom. She tore it open with her teeth and sheathed him quickly, efficiently. So very thoroughly. The caress of her hands down the length of him threatened to undo him right then. He reined himself in, reminded himself of all she’d been through—
She bracketed his face with her hands and stared straight into his eyes, her shoulder-length blonde hair a tousled, sexy mess around her face. “I don’t want tenderness and I don’t want some sort of fake romanticism. We both know what this is about.”
“You’re—”
“Tired of talking.” She urged his head to hers and kissed him, full-on and full-out, demanding with her mouth and her hands.
He’d been planning to say she was bruised and exhausted from her ordeal. That this was crazy and they needed to be levelheaded.
Sanity be damned. If this was insanity, he was all in. Literally.
Nudging down the pants of her scrubs, he cupped her butt again, lifting her, settling her on the edge of the desk. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her heels digging in, urging him forward until…
He pushed inside her.
Teeth gritted, he held still. “Okay?”
“More than okay, but I could be better if you would…”
She dug her heels into his ass and urged him closer. Deeper. Her eyes stared back at him in the dimly lit room, the same sweet blue drawing him in as completely as her body held his. He thrust and her forehead fell to rest against his, her sigh filling the air around them.
The tension that had begun building since the first time he saw her, that had only continued and increased, grew teeth inside him. The need, the hunger, gnawed at him, demanding he move inside her, meet the wriggle of her hips in just the right way to take her as high as she took him.
Growling, he kissed the curve of her neck, up, up, until he took the lobe of her ear between his teeth the way she’d done to him, guessing she’d done something to him she liked for herself. Her purr of pleasure rewarded him, and damn, making her feel good made him feel even better. She rocked against him and clawed at his back as the table inched backward, ramming the wall, rattling the bottles on the shelves with each thrust. She buried her face into his shoulder, muffling her cries of pleasure from anyone who might pass by their closet.
A closet, for God’s sake.
He wanted to take her again in a bed, in a shower, anywhere more civilized than a f**king broom closet in an earthquake zone. He wanted to stretch her out naked and taste every inch of her again and again until she came apart. And damn, damn, damn, he was the one coming apart as he pounded inside her.
Still, every time he tried to go slower, easier, she demanded more. She writhed against him, faster, breathing in his ear how close, so close, she was.
Her orgasm squeezed around him, harder and harder in a velvet vise. He thrust harder and faster, finally free to give in to his own release. The tension uncoiled, expanding, pulsing through him as he came and came again inside her. The force of it convulsed his arms around her, damn near buckled his knees like the demolished world around them.
And before the haze of pleasure faded, he felt her pulsing again. Her teeth sank into his shoulder and he reveled in the pain brought on by the satisfaction he gave her.
A light sheen of sweat slicked his torso, sealing their bodies together. He stayed inside her, knew he should pull out, clean up, say something… nice?
Damn, he was the king of postcoital platitudes after his dead-end relationships of the past five years. He knew dozens of ways to reassure a woman she was sexy and rocked his world, but he understood she needed someone different.
Then he could walk away with a clear conscience to hang out with his memories. His grief.
Yeah, that was a screwed-up cycle, but he didn’t know any other way to live without becoming a monk. Not an option.
Right now, really not an option.
So he scrounged for those words to give her, to somehow make sense of what they’d done.
She placed two fingers along his mouth. “Don’t talk.” She pressed her lips to his tenderly, briefly. “Don’t mess this up with words or half-meant promises that will feel awkward when we’re both clearheaded. This is what it is—an incredible culmination—and I thank you for that. It’s something I suspect we both needed and now it’s done.”
Before he could pick his jaw up off the floor, she’d gathered her clothes and dressed. She rested her cheek against his back for a heartbeat… and left.
The door closed softly behind her.