“Come on me,” he whispered harshly. “Come on me in public. Mark me with your nails.”

He felt her tighten around his erection, clenching against him, her body drawing him deep into her. She shuddered, and trembled violently, then shuddered again and again, her cries muffled by his hand.

While still covering her mouth, he dropped his face into her neck, tasting the slightest bit of sweat, mixed with rain. He drove into her, the pressure in his body building, his balls drawing up as his climax started to overtake him. “Michelle,” he said on a groan as his orgasm plowed through him relentlessly. Crashing through him, pulling him under.

He gripped her body harder, probably breaking skin too, needing to be as fucking close as he possibly could as he released himself in her, biting back his own groans of pleasure. He collapsed against her, and he was vaguely aware that he might be crushing her against the wall. He managed to slide away an inch so he wouldn’t hurt her. She looked more beautiful than she had earlier.

Finally, he released his hold on her mouth. “I need you so much,” he said, and it was the barest truth. He had to be with her.

“I need you too, Jack,” she whispered, looking up at his eyes. Never breaking the hold. “I’m falling in love with you.”

The second the words made landfall, he tensed. Like a coil, tightening inside him, locking him up. A warning bell that this was the moment he needed to prevent. This was the line in the sand that neither one of them should even come remotely near.

A little voice told him to bolt, to run, to get the fuck away. Because saying those words could change everything.

But then just as quickly, he quieted that fear. He’d come far. He’d made progress, hadn’t he? He had to let go of the grip the past had on him. He had to let go of anything but his deep and absolute need for this woman who gave herself to him so completely.

He could give her what she’d given him.

Surely, he could.

He parted his lips to speak, but an invisible hand gripped his throat. Came down hard on his mouth. The dark cloak of regret was like a silencer that choked all the words he wanted to say, turning them into dust on his tongue. The old familiar standby had resurfaced inside him, wormed his way through his conscious with the reminders of where words could lead. Right words, wrong time. Wrong words, wrong time. They were one and the same, and held too much possibility for pain.

He wanted to tell her everything. He wanted to tell her he was so afraid of saying the wrong thing, of hurting the right person, of loving the wrong way. Most of all, he was terrified of not loving enough. He wanted her to know all that was true and dark and painful inside of him.