“I need to feel you,” I whisper, fingers fumbling with the button, then the zipper, driven by a hunger that feels bigger than both of us.
He helps me, barely. Just enough to shove his jeans and boxers down far enough for his cock to spring free, flushed and thick and already slick at the tip.
Damn, he’s beautiful.
I wrap my hand around him, and he hisses through his teeth, hips jerking forward like he’s been waiting for this as badly as I have. He’s hot in my hand, heavy, the skin like velvet over steel, pulsing with need.
“You’ve been torturing me,” I murmur, stroking him slow, watching the way his breath catches, the way his jaw locks.
He growls low, hips thrusting into my grip. “That makes two of us.”
I tighten my hold, dragging my thumb over the head just to watch his eyes flutter shut. He’s undone. Completely.
And I did that.
A rush of power floods me. He’s always been in control. Always so steady. But here, now, he’s unraveling for me.
I stroke him again, slow at first, savoring the weight of him in my hand, the way he responds to every movement, every squeeze, every twist of my wrist, every pass of my thumb over that slick crown.
“Fuck, Josie,” he groans, bracing a hand against the counter, his body taut with restraint. “You’re gonna kill me. But first, I need to fuck you.”
My hand falls away, because fucking hell I need that too.
By the time his mouth is back on mine, I’m wrecked. Boneless. Floating somewhere between bliss and madness. But I kiss him like I’m still on fire, grasping, greedy, desperate for more.
I want to feel him. All of him. Inside me. Against me. I want to drown in this.
Even if it isn’t the best idea.
His mouth slants over mine again, deeper this time. Darker. I can taste myself on his lips, hot, slick, a little wild.
“No rush,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, threaded with pure sin. “I’m not done with you yet.”
The words hit like a live wire, sizzling through my blood.
He straightens, still panting, and glances around the kitchen. His gaze shifts, heat giving way to something even more dangerous: curiosity. Intention.
He scans the counters like he’s hunting.
“Stay there,” he says, and the command in his voice sends a fresh pulse straight between my legs.
I don’t move. Can’t.
I watch him stride over to the drawers like he owns me, and when he turns around holding a pastry brush, I blink.
My brows lift. “You’re not about to baste me like a roast chicken, are you?”
His grin is pure sin. Slow and wicked.
“Not unless you ask nicely.”
He dips the brush into a small ramekin on the counter, honey, I think, warm and golden, probably something we were going to glaze the pecan tart with, and my mouth goes dry.
Then he comes back to me, stepping between my open thighs, brush in hand, eyes locked on mine like I’m the dessert now.
“Trust me?” he asks, voice pitched low. Intimate.
I nod. I don’t even think.
