All of it burned away in seconds.
"Inside," I gasped against his mouth. "My apartment. Now."
He pulled back just far enough to search my face. "You sure?"
"If you don't take me upstairs right now, I'm going to lose my mind."
A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips. "Yes, ma'am."
We made it to my door somehow. I fumbled with my keys, hands trembling, and Gage pressed against my back, mouth on my neck, making it impossible to think straight.
"You're not helping," I muttered.
"Not trying to help." His teeth grazed my pulse point, and I nearly dropped the keys.
Finally—finally—I got the door open. We stumbled inside, Gage kicking it shut behind us, and then his hands were everywhere.
Shrugging out of his duty belt. Unbuttoning his uniform shirt beneath his coat. I yanked my jacket off, tossed it somewhere behind the couch, and reached for the hem of my shirt.
"Wait." Gage caught my wrists, stilling my hands. "Let me."
The command in his voice sent heat straight through me.
He took his time peeling my shirt off, his gaze tracking over every inch of newly exposed skin like he was memorizing it. When I stood there in just my sports bra and leggings, his pupils were blown wide.
"Jesus, Lacey." His voice had gone gravelly. "You're so damn beautiful."
Before I could respond, he dropped to his knees.
My breath stopped.
Gage looked up at me from that position—uniform shirt hanging open beneath his coat to reveal a tanned, muscled chest, eyes dark with want—and hooked his fingers in the waistband of my leggings.
"Gonna taste you," he said.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
He pulled them down slowly, taking my panties with them, and I stepped out of the fabric. Then his hands were on my thighs, guiding me backward until my hips hit the small kitchen island.
"Up," he commanded.
I boosted myself onto the cool tiled surface, and Gage stepped between my legs, spreading them wider.
The first stroke of his tongue against me made my head fall back.
"Gage—oh God—"
"Got you." His grip on my hips steadied me. "Let me take care of you."
Then he went to work.
Slow, deliberate licks that had me quaking. Soft kisses that turned harder, more demanding. His tongue circling my clit in a rhythm that built and built until I was panting, one hand fisted in his hair, the other braced against the counter.
"That's it," he murmured against me. "Let me hear you."
I was too far gone to be self-conscious. Every nerve ending was on fire, and he seemed to know exactly where to touch, exactly how much pressure to use. When he slid two fingers inside me and curled them just right, I cried out.
"Gage—I'm—"
