Hard. Hungry. Desperate.
Marigold gasps, her fingers clutching the front of my shirt as I tug her apron strings loose and pull her against me.
The smell of sugar and spice and her fills my head.
Flour dusts the air around us as we stumble toward the hallway leading to the stairs that go up to her apartment.
Her mouth is warm and sweet beneath mine, her body soft where I’m hard, and by the time we hit the wall, we’re both down to our underthings, grinding against each other like we’re trying to burn through every layer between us.
Her laugh turns into a moan as my hands slide down to cup her hips.
I can feel her heartbeat, wild and fast, matching my own.
“Shower. Now,” she pants against my lips.
“Yes,” I growl, scooping her up like she weighs nothing.
Her arms wrap around my neck, her legs around my waist, and I carry her upstairs without breaking the kiss.
Because this time, I’m not running from what’s between us.
This time, I’m diving straight in.
Chapter 12
Marigold
The world narrows to his heartbeat.
To the warmth of his hands, the soft rumble of his breath against my neck.
When Eb carries me upstairs, it isn’t rushed or clumsy.
It’s sure. Steady.
Like he’s been waiting for this—for me—longer than he wants to admit.
The second Eb closes the bathroom door behind us, it’s like the world stops spinning.
He turns the water on, and the air in the tiny bathroom turns misty in seconds, the sound of running water filling the silence between us.
He sets me down gently, and for a moment, we just stand there—steam curling around us, Christmas lights from the bakery window casting a golden glow through the frosted glass.
His fingers brush over my cheek, sweeping away a streak of flour I didn’t know was still there.
His eyes never leave mine—not when his fingers tug gently at the bow of my apron, not when it falls to the floor between us with a soft whisper.
“I should probably say something romantic right about now,” he says, voice husky, lips curved in that crooked half-smile that makes my insides turn to cinnamon sugar.
“You just carried me up a flight of stairs and turned my knees to jelly with a kiss,” I whisper back. “You’re good.”
His grin deepens, and that damn dimple finally makes an appearance. I’ve been waiting for it all day.
Then I watch as one hand goes behind his head and he tugs off his undershirt in that hot boy move I’ve only ever seen in movies or read about in books.
Good Lord, he is fine.
I’m nervous, but I don’t want to be. So, I follow suit.
