My mouth opens before I decide to let it. My body is running its own agenda now, and I'm just along for the ride.
The fruit is sweet and sharp. His thumb catches a drop of juice at the corner of my mouth and brings it to his own lips.
My pulse slams so hard I feel it in my throat.
"Good?" he asks again.
Nothing comes out. My throat has closed up. Fantastic. Love losing basic motor function over fruit juice.
He steps closer.
His hips are between my knees now. When did that happen? I don't remember spreading my legs, but here we are—his body fitting into the space I apparently made for him. I can feel the heat of him through his clothes. Through mine. The inside of my thighs pressed against the outside of his hips.
I should close them. Should push him back. Should do something other than sit here with my whole body wound tight and waiting for—
I don't finish that thought.
"Your pulse is fast." His voice is lower now. Rougher. "Why."
"Cardiovascular exercise. Sitting on counters is very strenuous."
"Iowyn."
Just my name. That's all. But he says it close—so close I can feel his breath on my face—and my body does something it has no business doing. My knees press against his hips. Not pulling him closer, not pushing him away. Just... loss of control.
My body is a moron.
"I can smell you."
My brain whites out.
He leans in. Not kissing—just breathing. His nose brushing my hair, my temple, the curve of my ear. Inhaling slow and deep.
The sound he makes—low and rough, pulled out of somewhere deep—goes straight between my legs. No detour through my brain. Just there.
My hands grab the counter edge. Holding on because if I don't, I'm going to do something stupid. Something I can't takeback. Something my body is already voting for even though my mind is screaming warning warning warning—
"You smell honest." His lips brush my ear. Not a kiss. Just contact. Just heat. "Do you know how rare that is? Everyone smells like lies. Rot. Performance." His hand slides up my thigh, stops at my hip, grips. "You don't. You smell like truth."
I should say something. Anything. A joke, a deflection, something to break this tension before it breaks me.
Nothing comes out. My throat won't work. My body won't cooperate. All I can do is sit here and feel him breathe against my neck, his hand hot on my hip, his chest almost touching mine—
He groans.
Low and rough, vibrating through his chest and into mine.
My hips jerk forward. Involuntary. Seeking something my brain hasn't approved.
And then he's gone.
Just gone. Two steps back, then three. The cold air hits my thighs where his body was, and I'm left sitting on a counter with my knees still spread and my pulse still racing and—
What the fuck.
"Renan." His voice is steady. How is his voice steady? "I need Renan."
"What—"
