“Ask me now.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes,” she breathes, opening her arms.
That’s all it takes.
I close the distance in three strides and she’s in my hands, her back hitting the edge of the table, her mouth on mine reminding me that being without it made me feel empty. She makes a sound I didn’t know she could make—like she’s hungry and desperate. It goes straight to my cock.
She tastes like sugar and something that’s distinctly her. She fists my shirt and drags me closer, and I go, no fight in me for once, only need. My fingers span her waist, grip firm, and the way she melts into my touch makes me want to do dangerous things.
“Red,” she murmurs into my mouth, and hearing my name in her voice while I’m touching her does something to me.
“Cookie,” I say back, like a warning and a promise, and then my tongue slides against hers and she forgets how to stand.
She doesn’t fall, though, because I’m already lifting her—my big hands under her thighs, an effortless scoop. She gasps and clutches at my shoulders. I turn, set her on the table in one smooth move, step between her knees, and kiss her like I’ve been starving for three years, and didn’t know it until she showed up on my porch in that ridiculous costume.
“Is this still okay?” I say again against her lips. I can’t help it; I need to hear it.
“More,” she begs.
I answer by dragging my mouth down her jaw to her neck. The way she shivers when my beard scrapes her skin makes me want to mark every inch of her. I groan, low and broken, and suck there, hard enough to mark her. Hard enough that she’ll feel it tomorrow and remember.
“Do you want everyone to know about us?” she breathes.
She must mean the town folk. Like I give a fuck.
“Yeah.” I drag my teeth over her pulse point. “I want them to see you’re mine.”
Because I do—because she is.
The way her body responds—it sends me crazy.
She’s pulling at my shirt before I even register it, shoving it up, needing more. I yank it over my head and toss it toward a chair. Her hands are on me immediately—palms over muscle, thumbs along my ribs, hands flattening over my heart. It kicks against her skin like it’s as rattled as she is.
“Jesus,” I mutter when she drags her nails up my stomach, watching the muscles contract under her touch. Everything in me has gone primal. “You’re going to kill me.”
“Please don’t die,” she says, breathless. “We’re busy.”
That cracks something in me. The smallest smile, filthy and real, creeps across my face. “You’re trouble.”
“You invited me in.”
“Nah, the storm did.” My hands slide down her sides like I’m memorizing her shape, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts through the sweater. I pause at the hem and look at her. “Tell me I can have you. All of you.”
“Yes.” The word comes out desperate. “God, yes.”
I fist the hem, and she raises her arms. The sweater goes up and off, leaving her hair full of static, her in her bra and pantiesand a blush I can feel radiating from her skin. She doesn’t cover herself; she doesn’t hide. And I can’t look away—my eyes search hers hungrily, taking her in fully.
“Fuck,” I breathe.
“Keep looking,” she whispers, and the boldness in her voice when my hands shake slightly on her waist makes me harder.
“I can’t stop.” My voice is rough, almost angry with want. “Look at you. You’re so beautiful, Cookie.”
“Tell me again.” Her head tilts back like my words slow everything down.
“You’re beautiful.” My voice drops. “All of you.”
