Heart pulsations beat by. His exhales soaked my lips. My hands locked on his shoulders. Rock-hard thighs supported my bottom, and his shirtless torso pressed in, making me warm all over.

He rested his brow against mine, and our noses slid together, side by side, affectionately nudging.

Fingers touched my face. Four points of contact curving around my cheek. Assertive warmth searing my skin. I wanted nothing more than to melt into him.

So much of my life had been submerged in sadness. Loneliness in my childhood, grief over losing my parents, Priest’s devastating perfidy—all of it lay waste to my emotions and shaped my darkest dreams.

I ached for every minuscule portion of affection my husband was willing to dole out. Pathetic.

My thoughts swam in a nebulous jumble as the impulse to devour him battled the instinct to bash his head against the wall. But the moment his lips kissed a languid path across mine, I was ensnared.

He plunged deep into my mouth, hunting my tongue and humming a voracious groan. Pleasure coiled. Madness threatened, and my inner muscles clenched in a shuddering frenzy.

His hand collared my neck, and the other palmed my backside, yanking me against the grind of his pelvis. The feverish sensation coaxed a moan from my throat, and the sensual roll of his hips dragged my focus to the source of all our misery—his heavy, swollen cock.

Awareness that he was my husband flooded my logic. My nose knew his scent. My tongue knew his taste. My hands recognized the soft texture of his hair, and my body sang in invitation, heating and growing slick with need.

He broke the kiss to put his mouth at my ear. “You’re so hungry, my beautiful girl. So responsive.”

The roughened texture of his accent shoved me to the brink of orgasm. God’s wounds, how I missed his heated words, the whisper of them across my flesh in the throes of passion.

His hands moved, roving beneath the shirt and unerringly finding the deep scar on my belly. His fingers shook as they traced the jagged, puckered skin before sailing up my abdomen, molding around my breasts, and closing painfully on my nipples.

With that, the plan was set. Now that he’d touched my chest, it would only take a few minutes to soak in.

Already, with his hands on my damp skin, confusion creased his forehead. Why was I sticky? Why did I let him touch me in the first place? He should have been voicing those questions and pushing me away. But evidently, he wanted me too much to listen to the warnings.