As if they hadn't just fucked!
Peter tightened his hold, his hand sliding lower without thinking, palm cupping the swell of her ass through the thin shorts, fingers pressing into the impossibly soft, giving flesh—warm, plush, the body of the woman who had carried him, raised him, now trembling in his arms with raw, aching need.
The taboo heat of it surged through him—the wrongness of how perfectly she fit against him, how her breath hitched when his fingers flexed, how her nipples hardened against his chest.
"Don't," she breathed when he started to apologize, pulling back just enough to look up at him—lips parted and wet, eyes dark with something far beyond simple relief.
"Don't apologize. Just—" Her voice cracked, her hand sliding up his chest to cup his jaw, thumb brushing his lower lip with a touch that lingered too long, too intimate. "Just let me hold you. Let me feel you."
So, he did.
