She sits back, legs tangled under her, and studies her hands. “I want to do something reckless,” she says, not quite a dare, not quite a plea.
I laugh, but it’s a soft sound. “You are reckless.”
She shakes her head, then looks up, eyes glinting. “Not enough.”
She stands, a little unsteady, and moves to the kitchenette. I watch her pour water into a glass, sip, then top it up again. She turns, leaning against the counter, the oversized hoodie sliding up to expose a strip of thigh.
“Do you want to fuck me?” she asks, as her fingers play with the hem of her sweater.
The question is said with such innocent shyness, it slices through my defenses. I stand, crossing the room in three steps, and pin her against the counter. She stares up at me, unblinking, daring me to answer.
“Every minute of every day,” I say. I let my hands settle on her hips, thumbs brushing the bare skin under the hem.
She shivers, but she’s not afraid.
I lower my mouth to her ear. “But not when you’re this drunk.”
She laughs, breathless. “You’re a liar. You want to fuck me so bad you can’t see straight.”
I smile, teeth sharp. “Little lady, that’s you. You are probably seeing double and this isn’t a threesome. No sex for you.”
She pushes me back, then grabs my collar and pulls me in. The kiss is desperate now, all teeth and tongue and the kind of hunger that feels like dying. She digs her nails into my neck, and I let her. I want her to leave a mark.
She breaks the kiss, gasping. “I want you to ruin me.”
Well fuck.
I lift her onto the counter, shoving aside a box of cereal and a chipped mug. She wraps her legs around my waist, hoodie riding up so high I can see the edge of her underwear. The fabric is white, plain, a deliberate fuck you to the designer lace her status can afford.
I slide my hand up her thigh, slow, giving her time to push me away. She doesn’t. She arches into my palm, a moan slipping past her lips.
“Still want it?” I ask.
She nods, hair falling in her face. “More than anything.”
I press two fingers against the cotton, feeling the heat of her through the fabric. She’s soaked, and I want to make her say it.
“Tell me,” I whisper.
She glares at me, but there’s no fight in it. “I want you inside me.”
I tear the underwear, not gentle, and she gasps at the sting of it leaving a red welt between her thighs.
I slide my hand between her legs, finding her clit, circling it until she’s shaking. She bites my shoulder, muffling the sound of her own need.
“Not here,” she says, breathless.
I scoop her off the counter and carry her to the bed. She’s light, but she clings to me like I’m the only thing holding her up.
I drop her onto the sheets, then strip off my shirt. She stares at me like she’s memorizing the sight, and maybe she is. I reach for my belt, but she stops me, fingers clumsy as she unbuckles it herself. She pushes my pants down, then wraps her hand around my cock, stroking with just enough pressure to make me want to kill something.
She shifts, pulling off the hoodie in one motion, exposing her bare chest. Her nipples are flushed, and she doesn’t try to cover them. She just stares at me, daring me to look away.
I don’t.
I pin her to the bed, mouth on her neck, on the bruise I left. She arches under me, legs parting, and I slide inside her in one slow, brutal thrust.
She gasps, head snapping back, and I bite her collarbone to keep from losing control.
