"I'm falling in love with you."
"Joel." I rise up on my toes, my hands fisting in his sweater. "I'm already there. I've been in love with you for so long I don't remember what it feels like not to be."
The sound he makes is somewhere between a groan and a growl, and then his mouth crashes into mine.
It's not gentle. It's five years of pent-up want exploding between us. His tongue invades my mouth, claiming, possessing, and I moan into the kiss. One of his hands tangles in my hair, pulling my head back so he can kiss me deeper, while the other grips my ass and hauls me against him.
I can feel how hard he is through his jeans, pressing against my stomach, and I grind against him shamelessly.
"Fuck," he breathes against my lips. "Nina."
"I need you." I'm already pulling at his sweater, desperate to feel his skin. "Now. Please."
He backs me up against the kitchen island and lifts me onto it effortlessly. My legs wrap around his waist automatically, and when he grinds against me, the friction through my jeans makes me gasp.
"You have any idea how many times I've jerked off thinking about this?" His voice is ragged as he kisses down my neck, teeth scraping. "About bending you over this counter? Making you scream my name?"
"Joel!"
"About burying my face between your thighs until you're begging me to stop?" His hands slide under my sweater, rough and demanding. "About fucking you so hard you can't walk the next day?"
Heat floods between my legs. "Yes! Please!"
He yanks my sweater over my head, and when he sees the red lace bra I wore—hoping, praying this would happen—he grins.
"Damn." His hands cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples through the lace. "You wore this for me." A feral look flashes across his face. He reaches behind me, unclasps my bra, and tosses it aside. Then his mouth is on my breast, hot and demanding, and I cry out.
He's not gentle. He sucks hard, teeth grazing, while his hand palms my other breast roughly. It's almost too much but I don't want him to stop. I thread my fingers through his hair, holding him against me.
"More," I beg. "Joel, please!"
He switches to my other breast, giving it the same treatment, and I'm writhing against him, desperate for friction. His hand slides between us, cupping me through my jeans, and even through the denim the pressure is perfect.
"So fucking wet already," he groans. "I can feel it through your jeans. You're soaked for me, aren't you?"
"Yes—God, yes—"
Joel, my best friend’s father, unbuttons my jeans with one hand, yanks down the zipper, and shoves his hand inside my panties. When his fingers slide through my wetness, we both groan. He pulls his hand out and I whimper at the loss. But then he's dragging my jeans and panties down my legs, and I lift my hips to help. When I'm bare from the waist down, spread open on his kitchen island, he steps back and just looks.
"Fucking gorgeous." His hand palms himself through his jeans. "Spread your legs wider. Let me see you."
I obey, heat flooding my face, and his eyes darken.
"Touch yourself."
"What?"
"You heard me." His voice drops an octave. "Touch that pretty pussy. Show me how you touch yourself when you think about me."
My hand trembles as I reach between my legs. I've never done this in front of anyone, but the way he's looking at me like he's going to devour me makes me bold.
I circle my clit, and his jaw clenches.
"That's it," he encourages. "Nice and slow. You think about me when you do this?"
"Yes," I breathe. "All the time."
"What do you imagine?"
