jemma extended LoS sex scene

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"Jules," Emma said. "Say something, please -"

His hands tightened convulsively on her shoulders. She gasped as his body collided with hers, walking her backward until her shoulders hit the wall. She gazed up at him with obvious astonishment; he could see his face reflected in her dark irises. He barely recognized himself, and his voice sounded strange when he spoke, even to his own ears: "Julian," he said. "I want you to call me Julian. Only ever that."

Her eyes seemed to spark. Her lips moved slowly - her soft, delicious lips, her mouth that he had stared at for what felt like a million years of silent, hopeless wanting.

"Julian," she said, exhaling his name on a breath.

The sound of her voice shaping his full name - not the name she'd called him when they were children - sent something hot and dark through his veins. His hands tightened on her shoulders and he took her mouth with a hard, violent desperation that could hardly be called a kiss.

Every muscle in his body seemed to contract at once: the kiss filled all his senses, softness, sweetness, the scent of her hair and skin, the sight of her closed eyes, the flutter of her lashes. Emma. His Emma. And she was clutching him back, she was holding him to her, hard, giving back every part of the kiss. She tasted of wildness, of rain, and he wondered how he could have even imagined for a split second that the faerie he had kissed had been her. He felt a moan rise in his throat and forced it back down; Emma knew this was a bad idea, she was the sensible one and some part of his brain was telling him that if he could hide how much he wanted her, how much he would give up to have this, she would let it continue. Let them both take part in this colossal mistake that was all that was keeping his heart beating.

Her hands rose, touched the back of his neck. Her fingers were long, delicate for a warrior's fingers, but not soft at all: her calluses scraped gently across the soft skin above the collar of his shirt and he shuddered with the effort not to lose control right then and there. She reached to yank his sweater over his head, dragging it off over his hands.

She reached for his t-shirt next; then hesitated. His heart slammed against his ribs. Please let it be that she didn't want to stop. Please let her keep wanting him. Her lips parted as she looked up at him: her fair hair hung in thick wet golden ropes over her shoulders, down her back. It made damp patches on her shirt; he could see her bra through the material, and her nipples, stiffened with the cold. He was so hard that it hurt.

He put his hands on her waist. He loved holding her like this, as if he were about to lift her in his arms, as if they were dancing. He heard her breathing quicken. His hands slid up her body, cupped her breasts; his fingers stroked across their centers. She gave a little gasping moan and her head fell back against the wall.

Desire and triumph shot through him at once, a heady combination. Their first time had been an explosion of wanting and instinct; he had taken away from it no confidence that he could reliably please her. Every quickened breath she took now was like a match to dry tinder; he hadn't thought he could want her more, but the fire coursing through him made him think of the church whose stone walls he and Emma had charred to ashes.

He kissed her deeply; she murmured against his mouth, her hands on his back, pulling him closer. She arched against him, against his body that ached and wanted her; he could hear his voice, saying her name, and he had to force himself not to beg her to tell him she loved him, that she wanted him.

But he couldn't control his own words. He buried his face against her, kissing her cheek, her throat as he slid his thumbs under the waistband of her jeans and pushed down. She kicked the wet heap of denim away. His hands tightened on her curves, the delicate convexity of hipbones under his fingers, something unbearably intimate in the contact.