Hemingway's hands lavished her body with attention, pulling back only to roughly free her of her shirt, tossing it to the floor before he was on her again. He could feel the range of emotions radiating off of her, and her need to own him was intoxicating. He wanted to be hers completely.
"Yes, you are. You're mine, Knightly. You're all mine. I love every bit of you. We belong to each other," he growled at her. No one was going to come between them. He wasn't going to be so stupid again. She was a part of him, and losing her would be like ripping his own limbs off. Or more like a vital organ. He couldn't be whole without her.
He moaned against her lips as she frantically tried to work at the buckle, feeling hot and dizzy with the heady mixture of lust and love he felt for her.