“Semantics.”
She rolled her eyes and stood, shaky but smiling, gathering her underwear and tugging them into place. Seeing her like this — soft, flushed, domestic and so utterly unprepared for how badly I wanted to keep her — it did something lethal to my chest.
I stood too, scooping her shirt off the tile and offering it to her.
She slipped it on with a breathy little thanks, and then — a beat of silence, a real one — she looked at me again, eyes softer than the dim winter light.
“We should… clean up,” she said, even though neither of us moved right away.
Our fingers brushed — just that — and she looked up at me. Eyes shining, mouth curved, hair wild and pink and everywhere. I don’t stand a chance in hell. Not with her looking at me likeI’mthe fun part of the mess.
“You’re going to drip all over the floor…again,” she said, wiping a streak of something off my jaw with her thumb.
“You say that like it’s a threat.”
Her eyes darkened, curious. “Maybe it is.”
I tossed the sponge into the sink. “What are you gonna do about it, Colette?”
She didn’t back down.
She stepped closer.
“I could make you clean this mess up,” she said, voice low. “Properly. Shirt off. Apron on.”
“Apron.” I said it like I needed it spelled out in neon. “Nothing else?”
“Maybe shoes,” she fluttered, grin wicked. “Safety first.”
I huffed a laugh, heat roaring back to life in a way that wasn’t even remotely appropriate for a post-blowjob exhale. Then she nudged me, shoulder and hips and intention, and I grabbed her waist, yanking her fully into me because I couldn’tnot.
“We’d get absolutely nothing done,” she said, laughing against my throat, already breathless again.
“Maybe that’s the point.”
She squeaked as I spun her, pinning her lightly against the counter — easy, not aggressive, butclaiming. Just enough pressure to remind her that we were in uncharted territory, and neither of us was walking away unscathed.
Flour from some forgotten meal, smeared on the cabinets, stilldusted her thighs. Her underwear was hanging on for dear life. My shirt was halfway unbuttoned, and her giggle made my entire world tilt just a little more.
“We’re a disaster,” she whispered.
“I think you might be my favorite brand of disaster, Colette.”
I kissed her — quick, wrecked, and notnearlyenough. Then pulled back with a grin that matched hers.
“Come on. Help me wipe the counters before I take you right back down to the floor.”
“Hardly a threat,” but she sighed like it was a hardship. “Fine. But then I’m making cookies.”
“Barefoot and half-dressed?” I asked.
“Would you prefer fully naked?”
I almost dropped the sponge again.
We didn’t rush.
Not like before, when we were all hands and mouths and frantic need. This was… quieter. Like the air had shifted, loosening something inside us both. We cleaned up in a way that barely counted as cleaning—halfhearted swipes at the counter between lingering touches and looks that went on too long.
