He laughs, tension easing as he tops off both our glasses. “You’re dangerous.”
“I’m a delight. And you love it,” I quip, letting my foot slide up the inside of his calf under the table. The resulting shiver is worth every ounce of self-control I’ve been burning off just to keep things civil over dinner.
The rest of the meal blurs into hot glances and double entendres. He clears the plates, insisting I relax, but I trail after him into the kitchen, leaning on the counter in a way I know makes my ass look fantastic. He mutters something about “the view,” but I pretend not to hear, just smile innocently and lick crème brûlée off my spoon like it’s the last food on earth.
Dessert is technically a work of art, all caramelized sugar and rich custard, but I barely taste it over the anticipation. Every time Miles reaches for something, I end up in his space. It’s a game, and we both know it. The kitchen feels smaller than before, crowded with heat that has nothing to do with the oven.
I catch him staring at my mouth. I don’t let it slide. “You want a taste?” I murmur, dipping my finger into the crème and holding it out.
He doesn’t hesitate. His lips close over my finger, tongue swirling, eyes locked on mine. I nearly drop the ramekin. “Sweet,” he says, his voice gone rough. “But not as sweet as you.”
God, he’s ridiculous. I love it.
I move in closer, pressing him back against the edge of the counter, our bodies almost aligned but not quite. “If youkeep talking like that,” I warn softly, “you’re going to undo all my hard work pretending to play it cool tonight.”
He grins, bracing his big hands on the counter behind him. “I like you not playing it cool.”
I lean up, letting my lips graze his jaw, then his ear. “Good. Because I’m about five seconds from letting you fuck me over the nearest piece of furniture.”
He stiffens, just a little, like the thought short-circuits his brain. “Promise?”
“If you’re lucky,” I purr. I bite his earlobe, slow and deliberate, then pull back just enough to look him in the eye. The kitchen is still, the only sounds are our breathing and the tick of the old wall clock. For a second, we just stare at each other, balanced on the edge of something huge. Then he moves, swift and decisive, catching me around the waist and hauling me up onto the counter. The cold granite against my thighs is a shock, but I barely notice. He’s between my legs, hands splayed across my hips, mouth finding mine with a hunger that leaves me reeling.
It’s messy. It’s desperate. It’s everything I’ve been craving for years, and then some.
He kisses me like I’m the only thing keeping him upright. Our teeth clash, tongues tangling, and I can’t help the whimper that slips into his mouth when his hands slide up my back, fingers fisting at my nape, angling me just how he wants me. He’s everywhere all at once, and the world shrinks down to just us.
I grind against him, chasing friction, and he groans, deep and honest. “God, May, you’re driving me crazy.”
I break the kiss just long enough to smirk. “Thought that was the idea.”
He huffs a laugh, then moves to my throat, kissing and biting along my skin until I’m shivering. His beard scrapes, alittle rough, a lot perfect. My hands roam under his shirt, tracing muscle and heat and the curve of his lower back. I can feel him, hard and insistent, pressed between us.
“Bed?” he asks, hopeful.
I shake my head, wrapping my legs tighter around him. “Don’t make me wait that long. Couch is closer.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. He lifts me with ridiculous ease, and suddenly we’re stumbling toward the living room, mouths fused together, knocking into furniture and nearly tripping over the rug. I barely notice. I’m too busy devouring him. I’m laughing, breathless, the two of us a tangle of limbs and half-whispered curses.
He deposits me onto the couch, then looms over me, eyes dark and hungry. His hands are everywhere, cupping my jaw, skimming my chest, tugging at my vest until the buttons pop free. He kisses me like he’s trying to swallow every sound I make, and I let him, hands fisting in his hair, pulling him closer. Always closer. This isn’t careful. It isn’t measured. It’s messy and urgent and maybe a little desperate. I want to crawl inside his skin, burn away every memory of the years we spent apart, and replace them with this. The hush of the snow outside. The sound of Miles groaning my name as he presses against me.
He yanks my vest open, shrugs it off my arms, then goes after my shirt. I barely get a hand on his zipper before he’s got my wrists pinned to the cushions, his mouth hungry at my throat.
“God, I missed you,” he breathes, lips skimming my jaw. “Missed this. Missed how you sound when I touch you. Missed the way you always get so fucking impatient.”
He’s not wrong. Iamimpatient. I want him so badly it’s embarrassing. I buck up against him, grinding us together through layers of denim and slacks, and suddenly the whole idea of “playing it cool” feels less impossible and more ridiculous.
Miles grins, wicked, and bites at the slope of my neck, just hard enough to leave a mark. I whimper, thighs tightening around his hips. “Please,” I gasp, not even pretending to be dignified.
He shifts, freeing my wrists, and goes to work on my pants, popping the button and dragging the zipper down. I help, more frantic than I want to admit, wriggling my hips so he can peel them off until I’m sprawled on the couch in nothing but a lacy jock, hard and leaking and so needy I could scream.
Miles sits back for a second, just looking at me. If not for the dark hunger in his eyes, I might feel exposed. Instead, I feel worshipped. Like every inch of me is something he’s been waiting years to touch.
“You’re gorgeous,” he says, voice low and reverent.
I scoff, playing it off. “You’re just saying that because you’re a sucker for lace.”
He leans in, nuzzling my collarbone, hands roaming. “You could wear a trash bag, and I’d still want to bend you over and fuck you until you forget your own name.”
