Noah's hips moved with purpose, each thrust deliberate and deep, angling to find the spot that made her breath catch. It built slowly, unhurried, as if they had all the time in the world—though the trembling in his arms betrayed his restraint.
Sage's head fell back against the pillow, her throat exposed and vulnerable, her pulse visible and rapid beneath flushed skin.
"There," she gasped, her nails raking down his spine, her legs tightening their lock around his waist. "Right there—"
He kept the angle, kept the pace, watching her face transform—guarded sarcasm dissolving into something raw and unguarded. Her body arched beneath him, meeting each thrust with increasing urgency, the mattress springs singing their accompaniment.
"I've got you," he grumbled against her jaw.
