I didn’t care.

I couldn’t even claim ignorance or naiveté, because I knew exactly what would happen next if this didn’t work out. I’d already lost him once, and I couldn’t fool myself into thinking I would survive this. This was suicide and I went for it anyway. I knew he wasn’t the boy I remembered, that whatever love had existed between us was killed off inside of him long ago. All that softness chiseled and molded to make him into the man he was today. Maybe this was just sex for him. Maybe he wasn’t capable of anything more. So while he gave me his body, I gave him my heart.

Our mouths turned greedy, our hands roaming. His beard scratched against my skin. He branded me with each kiss, each touch, claiming me as his as if there’d ever been a question, as if there ever had been a moment when I wasn’t his. And still, I wanted more.

I reached for his shirt, my fingers curling over the worn cotton. My hands turned ravenous as I pulled the fabric up, baring him before my gaze. He shrugged the tee over his shoulders, and then my hands were running over his skin, his abs.

Holy shit, he was beautiful.

His body looked like a tool, a weapon, full of power and control. The size difference between us was even more glaring; I felt breakable next to him, fragile in the midst of all of his strength.

And then his muscles trembled beneath my hands, and somehow the power shifted, and I felt like the one in control, Matt at my mercy.

I stroked his scars, my touch turning gentle, hesitant, running my fingers over the ridges and bumps of skin, the sight and feel of them a knife twisting in my stomach. They were like a map of his travels, of the life he’d lived when he was away from me. They were pain I wished I could take away from him.

I bent forward, pressing my lips to his skin, his muscles bunching and jerking beneath my mouth as he inhaled sharply. He was warm and smooth and hard, and I couldn’t resist the urge to suck on his skin, wanting to leave my marks on him, to claim some ownership over his body. My lips found the tattoo near his heart, pressing a kiss above the initial he’d had inked there.

Matt groaned, his hips canting toward me.

My fingers fumbled with his belt, with the button of his jeans, my heart hammering.

It had been way too long since I’d had this. When I’d thought he’d died, the idea of having sex with anyone else hadn’t been appealing at all. I’d resigned myself to my vibrator and a lifetime of celibacy. This was so much better.

I dragged the zipper down, the rasping noise filling the air around us, pulling the denim from his powerful hips as Matt stepped out of his jeans and I admired the view before me—tan legs, muscular thighs. My hands went to his boxers, tugging until they hit the floor and he was naked before me—long, thick, hard.

My mouth went dry.

His hands moved behind my body, searching for the zipper to my dress, yanking it down, his gaze molten. My nipples tightened, another flash of arousal hitting me, my body growing wetter.

I stepped out of my dress, my legs trembling, hands shaking, grateful for the heels that gave me the extra height to close the distance between us. Grateful for the fact that I was wearing one of my nicer bras and thongs. And then, with a few deft twists of his fingers, those were gone too, pulled from my body in a flash of silk and lace, and I stood before him naked, my body throbbing for him, begging for his touch.

For a moment he remained still, his gaze drinking me in. There were nerves there, and at the same time, we’d been together too many times for me to feel nervous, even as I wondered if he was cataloguing all of the changes in my body as I’d done to him.

And then he moved.

Matt pinned me back against the wall, his hands fisting in my hair, his hips pressing into me. His legs came between mine, widening my stance so that I was splayed open against the wall, the power shifting. I might have started things with a kiss, but he had no problem taking over, no problem taking what he wanted.

His cock brushed against me—big, hard, one thing that apparently hadn’t changed. When we’d fooled around in my bedroom before, I’d known that there was a limit to how far things would go between us, known that with my stitches there was only so much we could do. But now? I wanted it all.

My heart might have died when I’d thought he did, but my body was very much alive.

I wrapped my arms around him again; I nipped at his bottom lip. Matt growled against my mouth.

This.

Maybe I didn’t need love. Maybe I just needed this. Savage and brutal, beautiful and sharp. I’d been living like a nun for three years, dried up and worn out at just twenty-two. I wanted—needed—tonight. It had been explosive between us before he’d left for Afghanistan a few weeks ago. I wanted that rush again. Wanted to forget all of the death and destruction. I figured I’d lived in the darkness for long enough; I deserved this. And even if I didn’t, I took it anyway.

I sucked on his lips, nipping at the skin there again, our tongues tangling when he invaded my mouth, his hands gripping my head, holding me in place while he kissed me. I moaned, the sound swallowed between us.

Matt tugged on the ends of my hair, pulling my head back, his mouth on my throat, his teeth scraping the skin there, his beard scratching me. My scalp tingled, my hips rocked forward, and I rubbed myself over his erection, my nipples pebbling.

It had never been like this before.

We’d had great sex, and even though it wasn’t like I’d had anything to compare it to, I’d always been satisfied. More than satisfied. Matt had always been sweet in bed, had always made sure I got off on it like he did. There’d been passion, but not like this. I realized now that he’d held back with me before, or maybe this wildness hadn’t existed within him, clawing its way out.

He wasn’t holding back anymore.

Whatever fueled me now lived inside him as well. Whatever we’d been through in the past four years, whatever versions of ourselves we’d become, had brought us to this point. To this total and utter loss of control.

Matt released my hair, his hands gripping mine, yanking my arms over my head, my wrists against the wall, arching me forward. He held me there with one hand, my body anchored between the wall and his. So fucking good. I met him each time he raised the stakes, wanting, needing more, pushing him further.

His free hand came down, flicking across my nipples, stroking the curve of my breasts, his mouth following the path his fingers had taken as he kissed his way down my body, as he nipped and sucked on my skin.

Holy hell.

Goose bumps covered me, his lips brushing my belly button as he released my wrists, kneeling down in front of me, his breath on my skin.

Yes.

He stroked me, his fingers digging into my thighs and widening my stance, and then his head came between my legs and his tongue found my clit. His hands rested on my hips; he held me in place while his mouth ravaged me, as I trembled and shuddered, his tongue teasing my arousal from me with each lick.

And then I felt it building inside me, my skin warm, my body writhing over his mouth as he laved my clit again and again. My legs sagged beneath me as the full force of my orgasm racked my body. He held me against him, his mouth resting on me as the last remnants of pleasure seeped from me.

“I want you inside me,” I whispered, my breath shaky.

“Turn around,” he growled.

Yes.

I turned, my legs wet noodles, my palms against the wall, bending at the waist, my body automatically settling into the right position for our height difference, muscle memory taking over.

I heard him rustling around, heard the sound of a foil package ripping. I turned my head and watched as he rolled the condom on, and then I felt him at my back, his cock brushing against my ass, his hands reaching forward to cup my breasts, rolling my nipples between his thumbs and forefingers in a move that had another set of shudders tearing through my body, my skin electric from the recent orgasm. His hands slid down, molding, shaping my curves, settling on my hipbones and holding me in place.