My pulse stutters.
He turns to me, forcing me to stop cutting, and his eyes meet mine.
Then his gaze drifts lower, to my lips, which I can’t seem to stop wetting. When his eyes lift again, the golden flecks in his irises are barely visible, his pupils dark and wide.
Dear God. That’s a man who knows exactly what he wants.
The air hums between us, charged and waiting.
He doesn’t move. Just watches me. Patient. Sure.
“Fuck it,” I whisper.
I drop the scissors onto the worktop, and then my hands are in his hair, my mouth on his. Our lips fuse together and I melt into him, his hands anchoring me at the waist. Our mouths part and his tongue slides against mine—slick, teasing, tasting of mint and something so utterlyhimit’s dizzying.
Last time I blamed the joint for how wild he made me feel. But this, right here—this is all Struan. No haze but the one he puts in my head.
And judging by the way his grip tightens—I meanreallytightens—on my hips as he pulls me closer, he feels it too.
He kisses me harder, and then suddenly I’m lifted and shifted onto his lap. Not straddling him, just perched sideways like some 1950s pin-up. But his erection is insistent against my thigh, and my brain short-circuits at the feeling of him, hot and hard through those joggers.
I nip his lower lip between my teeth, and he groans—low in his throat, a sound that goes straight to my core. There’s a deep ache building between my legs now, throbbing with every kiss.
I break away just long enough to shift, flinging one leg over so I’m straddling him properly, my centre settling against the thick, hot line of his cock. The contact is so good I whimper.
His hands find their way under my sweater—callused palms searing against my bare back—and I arch into him with a gasp. My fingers tangle in his new, shorter hair.
I start to move. Rocking gently against him. And he groans again, the sound so desperate I swear I could come just from hearing it.
So much for not getting carried away on the first date. We’ve not even made it to the date yet.
But the tide’s got me now, pulling hard and certain, and I don’t want to fight it.
He kisses me again. It’s messy, hungry, all tongues and teeth and need.
Then suddenly he pulls back.
His lips are puffy and red. His chest rises fast beneath me. “How far do you want to take this?” He searches my face, earnest and raw. Then, gripping my arse in both hands, he drags me along the length of his cock—slow, devastating friction that hitsme right where I need it. “Do you want to do what we did the other night? Or...”
“Or?” I rasp back, barely breathing.
He kisses along my neck, nuzzling the skin just below my ear before inhaling deeply. “Or do you want to go further?”
I told myself I wouldn’t do this. Not today. I told myself today was about getting to know him better. About conversation and keeping things sensible.
But sensible flew out the window the moment my boob hit his face.
“Further,” I gasp. And then, just so there’s no room for confusion: “I want our clothes off this time.”
His nostrils flare. And then he stands, lifting me with him like it’s the easiest thing he’s done all week. My legs wrap around his waist automatically.
He walks us out of the kitchen, his erection still snug against me, right where I’m throbbing.
“Where are we going?” I manage, breathless, already half-drunk on anticipation.
“My bedroom.” He kisses me hard enough to steal what little remains of my composure. “I’ve fantasised about you naked in my bed since the day I met you. And now it’s fucking happening.”
Oh God. A shiver rips down my spine. This side of Struan—demanding, hungry—is new.
