She could feel his cock swelling, could sense his impending loss of control in the way he trembled, breath stuttering at the edge of her ear. She rocked with him, grinding back on each thrust, wanting to milk every last drop of pleasure out of the moment, out of his body and hers. She let herself feel the moment.
Jack came with a groan, loud, hoarse, and chest going rigid against her back, cock jerking inside her, and she felt every pulse like a shock through her own body. The wet warmth of his cum surprised her, made her bite down on her own forearm to keep from crying out.
He eased out of her, panting. She straightened and turned. His face was flushed, sweat at his temples. For a second, he looked like he might say something but she kissed him again and he kissed her back, tongues entwined. Then they stood together in the kitchen, jeans around their knees, the table littered with toast crumbs and spilled coffee, and Rachel realized it had been a long time since she’d felt so completely herself.
Jack pulled up his jeans and ran a hand through his hair. His hands still shook a little. He tried to catch his breath, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse but certain. “I’ve never wanted something so much in my life.”
She grinned at him. “Good,” she said, “because I don’t intend to stop if you can keep going.”
Jack lingered, hands still at her waist as if she might vanish if he let go, and for a moment Rachel let herself be held. His shirt was rumpled, a button missing now. When he finally stepped back, he looked almost dizzy with it all.
They tidied the kitchen in silence, living in the moment. The clock ticked on. Rachel thought she should say something, some line to mark what had happened, but nothing came. So she just watched him.
By noon, the day had settled back into routine. But a new routine was taking shape. At the end of the day, Rachel went to find Jack in the barn. She held out her hand. “Now you come inside with me.”
They barely made it through the farmhouse door before Jack pulled her to him, kissing her with weeks of pent-up hunger. Rachel kissed him back just as desperately, her hands fisting in his shirt. They stumbled toward her bedroom, shedding clothes as they went.
“Let’s shower together first.” she whispered in his ear. He didn’t answer, just nodded, and she led him up the stairs. She felt lightheaded, oddly girlish, a tremor like laughter trapped in her chest. In the bathroom, she turned on both the hot and cold taps so steam would fill the little room, misting the mirror. She unbuttoned his shirt herself, tugging it free with the impatience of someone who’d lost time to grief and wanted every second back.
Jack stood still as she undressed him, letting her hands do the work. He seemed almost stunned, lips parted like he was about to say something but couldn’t settle on what. She stripped him all the way down, running her hands over the pale, fresh-muscled lines of his body, mapped now with the first marks she’d left: a crescent bruise at the base of his throat, a red scratch along his ribs. He watched her in the mirror, a bashful pride there, and she felt herself grow bolder. She stripped off her own clothes and got the first true, unhurried look at herself in years–collarbone sharp, skin copper where the sun hit, lighter on her belly. Hips broad, ass taut, nipples still dark and pointed, even in the warmth of the bathroom. Her body looked like someone else’s, almost, older and more indestructible than her own skin.