He’s broad and inked and built like temptation incarnate, like someone designed him to ruin me on sight.
And then his hands are back, tugging at the tie of my apron, pushing it aside. My shirt comes next, pulled up over my head, and then his fingers are at the waistband of my pants.
I shiver as he drags them down, underwear and all, baring me to the cool kitchen air and his blazing gaze.
He leans in again, and I manage to scramble up onto the counter without breaking the kiss, legs spreading instinctively to make room for him. My hands tangle in his hair, tugging him close, needing more…allof him.
His mouth trails fire down my throat, pausing at the hollow of my collarbones, then lower.
“You taste like tomatoes,” he says against my skin, smirking.
I laugh, breathless. “You complainin’?”
“Not a fucking chance.”
Then he drops to his knees.
Right there. In the middle of the kitchen.
My breath catches.
He kisses up the inside of my thigh, slow and sinful, watching me the whole time. Tension builds in my gut as he takes his time, teasing his way closer to my aching center. I grip the counter behind me, knuckles white as he licks a single, devastating line up my slit, tongue flattening at the end to flick my clit.
My whole body jerks.
“Holyshit,” I gasp, thighs trembling around his head.
He groans against me, like the taste alone is driving him insane. Then he does it again. And again. Licking, teasing, sucking in rhythm until my hips are grinding against his mouth, chasing every flick of his tongue.
“Knox.”
I cry out when he slides two fingers inside me, curling them just right as his mouth works me in tandem. My head falls back, spine arching, every nerve singing.
“You gonna come for me, baby?” he murmurs, voice wrecked, fingers still thrusting deep. “Want to feel you fall apart.”
And then he gives it to me.
Full pressure. Unrelenting. His tongue flicking my clit with ruthless focus, sucking and licking and owning me until that tightly coiled pressure inside me snaps.
I come with a cry, loud and raw, back bowing off the counter, thighs clamping around his head. My fingers yank hard in his hair, holding him there, needing him there as the orgasm crashes through me, fierce and wild.
But he doesn’t stop.
He keeps going, licking through every pulse and twitch, fingers still sliding in and out, drawing it out until I’m shaking all over, a breathless, gasping mess, skin flushed and drenched in heat.
Only when I’m reduced to trembling limbs and broken moans does he finally rise, mouth glistening, eyes dark and wild with want.
And he smiles.
He kisses his way back up my body, slowly, lips dragging heat over every inch of skin. He lingers at my stomach, my ribs, the soft swell of my breasts, tasting, teasing, making sure I feel every second of it.
But I can’t stay still.
My hands, still shaky, roam down his chest, tracing the hard lines of muscle, the ink that winds like temptation across his skin. Lower, past the ridges of his abs, until I reach the waistband of his jeans.
He groans the second I touch him there, my palm pressing over the thick length straining against denim.
“Josie,” he breathes, voice wrecked.
