Reid
He had imagined her touching him again. He had imagined what it would feel like if she ever let him close after everything he had done.
He had not imagined that it would feel like this—like everything in him had been pulled tight and set alight at the same time.
The sight of her standing in their house—her house—eased something wild inside him. But she hadn’t come back to him. Not really.
She had been clear about that.
She had come for something specific, something practical, that was all she wanted from him. Reid understood that.
He couldn’t even give her what she was asking from him. Not today. Her body wasn’t ready to receive what he was going to give her. This is just practice.
Reid swallowed hard.
It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter what she called it. He would give her whatever she wanted.
Anything.
Always.
Her palm rested against his chest, warm even through his shirt, and he felt strung so tight with wanting and relief that he could barely think around it.
His hand circled her wrist lightly. He was conscious of every inch between them—the warmth of her skin beneath his fingers, the soft rise and fall of her breathing, the way her body seemed suspended on the edge of a decision.
He could feel her heartbeat.
Or maybe it was his.
He didn’t know anymore.
She kissed him, and Reid forgot how to breathe.
For one stunned heartbeat he could only stand there. Maya was kissing him, Maya was choosing him, Maya was close enough that he could feel the softness of her mouth and the familiar shape of her body leaning into his.
It was real.
Not a dream, not his imagination, not Reid spilling into his own hand at the memory of her.
Real.
His wife was kissing him.
God, he had missed her.
He had missed her voice in the house and her things scattered through rooms and the unconscious certainty that she was his person.
He had missed her in ways he didn’t have language for.
Every part of him was aware of her. The wonderful shape of her, the exquisite way she fit against him.
She was his.
No.
Not his. Not any more.
Reid forced the thought down immediately, ashamed of it.
This was about her.
What she needed. What she had asked for.
He would not take more than she was offering.
He would not turn this into something it wasn’t.
But God—
He loved her.
“Maya,” he said against her mouth, her name roughened by emotion.
“Practice,” she said, on a gasp.
A reminder. For herself, he thought.
Reid nodded, his forehead brushing hers. “Okay,” he said.
He meant it. He would give her whatever she needed from him.
He would give her whatever she needed from him until his dying breath.
He could live here, his face between her legs.
He looked up at her.
Her cheeks were flushed, her lips parted. And the sight of her like that—his wife, looking at him like that—nearly floored him.
He was giving her his mouth, making her wet and open and receptive.
If she needed to think of it as practice, she could. If she needed to think this was just sex, she could.
But for Reid, it was more. For him, this was making love. And he would pour himself into her, heart, body and soul.
He would finish inside her. She had asked that from him and he would give her anything.
He felt the moment her composure started to slip—recognized the small helpless sounds, the way her thighs tensed on either side of him.
Her hand grasped harder where she had her fingers in his hair. Her hips rocked under his mouth, demanding.
"There," she said, voice cracking on the word, and he stayed exactly where he was.
“Please,” she said as if he wasn’t willing to give her everything.
He felt her come apart—her body pulling taut, her hand gripping the back of his head.
He worked her through it.
Eventually, she reached for him, her hands finding his shoulders and pulling. He moved up her body as she trembled with the aftershocks of her orgasm.
She was so soft. So warm.
Her hands flattened against his chest—warm palms, familiar pressure—and he had to close his eyes for a second just to absorb the reality of it. Her touching him. Here. Like this.
"You're amazing,” he said quietly.
He had always thought so. He had never stopped thinking so for a single day of knowing her.
She looked up at him.
“I want you to fuck me now,” she said.
They’d made love countless times. But never like this. Never unprotected.
Reid had never had sex like this with anybody.
She was so hot, and so wet. His hips jerked an inch before he was able to still himself.
He waited, his breath loud in the room.
He watched her face for discomfort, for hesitation, for anything that would make him stop.
There was none.
Pushing inside her was pleasure and agony.
For him, she was everything he wanted, and for her, he was a means to an end.
He’d take anything. He’d take any part of her she’d share. He was pathetic, he was unworthy, he was in love with his wife.
She fit against him exactly as she always had, and her hands were on his back and her breath was against his throat and every part of him wanted to beg her for more, wanted to tell her—
He kept his mouth shut and pressed his forehead against hers instead.
She exhaled when he was fully inside her, her hands coming to his back, fingers pressing into muscle, and for a moment neither of them moved.
The room was quiet and their breaths were loud. "Reid."
He began to thrust.
Everything narrowed to her.
The sounds she made. The weight of her, the way her body answered him, the small catches in her breathing that she couldn't control no matter how carefully she was holding herself together.
His hand moved between them and she arched into him, breath breaking on a sound she couldn't contain. Her nails pressed into his back and he felt her control slipping.
He kissed her jaw, her throat, the hollow beneath her ear. He knew how to bring her undone. He knew her body, he knew the curve of her neck, the soft skin at her waist.
She turned her face into his neck and he felt her mouth against his skin. Desire moved through him like a current.
"Maya," he said, her name rough in his throat.
Her arms tightened around him.
Her breathing was breaking now, small sounds escaping, and he felt the tension building. He kept moving, kept the rhythm as steady as he could. He wanted to lose himself in her, but he needed to bring her pleasure more.
His thumb traced her clit and he rubbed her in slow, careful circles, matching his rhythm. She gasped, her hips stuttering against him.
He pressed his lips to her temple. "I've got you, sweetheart,” he said quietly. "I've got you."
"Reid—" Her voice broke on his name.
She shuddered, clenching around him.
He didn’t know when he’d closed his eyes. He pressed his mouth to her temple, her cheek, the corner of her jaw. Small, careful things. Giving without asking for anything back.
Her face pressed into his shoulder and her arms locked around him and she came apart, her whole body pulling tight and then releasing, and he held her through every second of it, his lips against her hair, his arms solid around her.
He couldn’t hold back. Not now. Not with his wife, hot and tight around him.
She was everywhere—her arms around him, her body under him, her mouth against his neck.
He pressed forward, burying himself in her, over and over.
He would give her everything, he was giving her everything. Not just his body. Not just a moment.
Everything.