Her mouth flattens to hide a twitch that wants to be a smile. She takes a sip and winces when the heat snaps at her tongue. She blows across the surface and sets the cup on the counter as if it is heavier than just porcelain. Her eyes move to the clock mounted over the pantry door.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she says, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“I would be concerned if you could.” I lean a hip against the island. “You’re anxious to have her back. It’s the only kind of impatience I respect.”
We stand there with the kettle tick-clicking as it cools, with Vega settling to rest his chin on his paws, and the clock on the wall pushing the second hand forward.
“You’ll bring her home,” Sage says, not as hope, but as fact.
“Yes.”
She breathes out, nods once, and carries the mug to the window, steam curling past her wrist. The glass is black with night. She drinks again and makes a face. “Terrible,” she says. “I forgot sugar.”
I move before I think, closing the distance between us. It isn’t need. It’s want, the kind that gnaws when left unfed. I open the drawer, take the jar, and set it by her hand. Our fingers brush, the contact like static snapping from steel to skin. She inhales, a small, quiet pull of air that radiates through me like a fuse touching flame.
“Thank you,” she says softly. Her hand trembles. She pretends it is the heat. It is not.
I catch her wrist, my grip firm but not forceful. Her pulse jumps against my thumb.
“You are not sleeping,” I murmur. “You are making tea at two in the morning in my shirt.”
Her eyes lift. “Do you want it back,” she asks, as if the shirt is what I am thinking about.
“I want all of it,” I breathe, the space between us narrowing. “The shirt, the tea, the way you look at me when you are trying not to.”
She folds her arms, a small barricade that doesn’t fool either of us. I respect the effort, even as I plan to undo it.
“This isn’t smart,” she murmurs, her gaze dropping to the counter before finding mine again.
“Correct.” I lean one hand on the island, the other still at my side, keeping the air between us taut.
She swallows, her throat working once. One hand slides along the edge of the counter, bracing herself. “What do you want?”
“I want you to stop pretending you don’t feel this.” I step closer until her back hits the edge of the counter. I tilt her chin with my knuckles, just enough to tip her face to mine. “Tell me to walk away,” I mutter. I’m a man who collects, not a man who steals, but her permission feels like a drug I can’t refuse.
She makes a small sound that is not refusal. Her hands flatten over my chest, her fingers curling in the fabric like she is trying to hold herself in place. “Don’t walk away.”
I take her mouth with a hunger I have leashed all day and now allow to run. I deepen the kiss, the kind of possession that mapsevery angle and keeps learning. She makes a sound in her throat that turns the room into a pulse.
I lift her onto the counter, her legs curving around my hips. The shirt slips higher, baring the smooth line of her thigh. My hands trace their way upward, claiming every inch until they find the edge of her panties. I slide them down, watching them fall to the floor between us.
Sage shudders and catches the edge of the countertop, her knuckles whitening, control giving way to something honest. I break the kiss and breathe against her mouth, staring at her so closely I can count every freckle across the bridge of her nose.
“Look at me,kiska,” I growl.
She does, eyes too blue, pupils blown wide, caught between defiance and need. My thumb slides between her folds until it finds her clit. I trace slow, deliberate circles until she yields, her legs opening wider beneath my touch. She trembles, then finds my gaze again, and for a moment there is nothing in the world but the pattern of her breath and the slick heat under my thumb.
“Luka,” she whispers, and my name in her mouth is not a plea. It is a claim I have wanted since the first time I walked into her café and she met me like a woman who did not scare easily.
I slide my other hand up, palm to her throat, a caress that fits her perfectly. I do not squeeze. I feel the rapid beat, the jump of her swallow, proof that she is alive and in my hold. I kiss her again, slowly and thoroughly, and when her hips roll, I press my thumb harder, guiding her into a rhythm that has nothing gentle in it. She pushes her hands under my shirt and drags her nails over my skin as if to mark me so I cannot forget who I belong to tonight.
She jerks as I plunge a finger into her pussy. “Kiska,” I breathe, “you’re so wet.”
I slide in a second finger, thrusting deeper until her walls clench and pulse around me.
“Yes, fuck my fingers,” I groan, thrusting them deeper inside her.
I drive my fingers into her again and again, watching her body arch to meet every thrust. Her lips part on a sharp gasp before she unravels around me, trembling and breathless. I draw them out slowly, savoring the taste that clings to my fingers, already addicted to her sweetness.
