She’s tugging my flannel off, and then my thermal over my head. We break the kiss long enough for her to get the job done, and then I’m kissing her again.
No apologies.
No hesitation.
Just everything my body has craved all day long.
I push her shirt up and flick my thumb over her nipple, and she moans in my mouth.
Yes.
She keeps saying she misses kissing. Touching.
Intimacy.
I haven’t, but now it’s all I want. To be close to her.
She’s my missing puzzle piece, and I need to stop. I need to tell her to stay here, stay safe, and go live a happy life.
But I don’t want to.
I want to suck on her pretty nipples and stroke her between her legs and curse the fucking day I decided not to carry condoms everywhere with me.
“Davis—” she gasps as I indulge in my fantasies. “Nightstand.”
Fuck, yes.
I hope.
Shit.
I haven’t done this in a goddamn decade.
What if?—
What if she’s slapping for the nightstand while she rocks her pelvis against me and I need to shut my mind up and just do what we both want?
What feels so right.
Inevitable.
I roll her beneath me, flip open the drawer and grab a strip of condoms from inside, and then we’re kissing again.
I fucking love kissing her.
The way she tastes.
The little noises she makes in the back of her throat.
The way she yanks my beanie off to grip my hair while holding my mouth to hers.
The glide of her tongue over mine.
The press of her hips into my hard-on.
I fumble with the condoms, and she shoves at the waistband of my jeans.
Desperate.
