“Making tea,” he said, nuzzling behind my ear. “If I don’t channel this energy somewhere useful, I’m going to do somethingreallyunproductive.”
My heart skipped a beat. “Define unproductive.”
He set me down on the counter, stepping between my legs with his hands braced on either side of my hips.
“Messy. Desperate. Possibly illegal in this state.”
I bit my lip. “...Wanna definemessy?”
He groaned and kissed me again — rougher this time, but still pulling back just before it could go too far.
“Iwantto,” he said, forehead pressed to mine, voice a little wrecked. “But I’m not going to. Not yet.”
“You’re such a good man, it’s honestly offensive.” I hooked my feet around the back of his legs, pulling him closer. “You don’t have to be.” Sliding my hand up his chest, I grabbed a fistful of his shirt, pulling his mouth back to mine.
This kiss was rougher, messier. Maybe even the right amount ofunproductivethat Ansel needed. Without breaking the kiss, I searched for his hand, dragging it up to cup my breast. “Touch me,” I whimpered against his lips. “I need you to touch me, baby.”
His breath hitched — like I’d shocked the air right out of him.
“Juniper,” he whispered, like it hurt. Like my name alone could undo him. His hand curled instinctively, thumb brushing over the peak of my breast in a soft, reverent pass that had me arching into him.
“I’ve waited,” I breathed, lips still brushing his. “So have you. Please.” My hand still covering his, still held his against my breast. “Please.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, jaw clenched like he was holding himself back with every muscle in his body. But I felt it — the tremble in his hands, the way his hips pressed just a little closer, the way his mouth dropped open like he wanted to say something and couldn’t remember a single goddamn word.
“You’re not making this easy,” he said, voice hoarse, thumb passing over my nipple again. And again.
God.
And again.
“I’m not trying to.”
My fingers found the hem of his shirt, sliding beneath it, running up the warm plane of his stomach until he cursed under his breath. His hand tightened over my breast, the other curling behind my neck to pull me into another kiss — deep and slow and teetering on the edge of something he wasjustbarely holding back.
“Ansel,” his name left my mouth as a soft moan, arching my back, pressing my breast further into his hand.
But then — with a soft groan of defeat — he broke the kiss and dropped his forehead to my shoulder.
“I want you,” he whispered. “So fucking bad I can’t think straight. But when I finally get to have you…” He paused, lifting his head, hand still cupping my breast like he couldn’t let go. “It’s going to be when I can take mytime.When I can make you fallapart over and over without worrying about some idiot with a camera or a damn teakettle or anything else in the world.”
I was panting now, pupils blown, lips kiss-bruised and parted. But I didn’t argue. Didn’t push.
Because he wasn’t telling meno.
He was promising me more.
So much more.
I swallowed hard. “Okay.”
He kissed me again, this time softer — full of everything he wasn’t saying. His hands, still trembling slightly, slid back down to my hips as he stepped away.
“We’re gonna sit here,” he said, voice rough. “We’re gonna drink tea. And then, if you’re really lucky, I might let you pick a movie while I pretend not to stare at your ass the whole time.”
I raised a brow. “Only ifI’mlucky?”
“Oh, Junebug.” He grinned as he handed me the mug he’d been preparing this whole time. “I’m the luckiest bastard alive.”
