His other hand came up, fingers threading into my wet hair, tilting my head just how he wanted it. And I let him. His thumb dragged along the side of my throat as he brought his mouth to my hair, pressing his lips against the wet strands, inhaling like he needed the scent of me lodged somewhere deep in his lungs.
"This hair," he muttered against it, voice breaking on a ragged breath.
Then he rubs his cheek against mine making my stomach clench, a sharp, helpless intake of breath breaking past my lips.
"Do you have any fucking idea," he murmured, his voice breaking rough and low, "what it's like… to go without this?"
His grip in my hair tightened, the bridge of his nose nudging behind my ear as he breathed me in like he was starving for it.
"Years," he rasped, mouth ghosting against the damp line of my throat. "I used to wake up, fuck—"
A harsh exhale.
