I heat milk on the stove. She leans against the counter, watching me like she’s learning something new — not about making hot cocoa, but about me.
Once the concoction is finished, I place whipped cream and a pinch of cinnamon on top for effect.
“You don’t usually do that,” she says.
“No,” I admit. “I don’t use whipped cream much.”
“But you are for me?”
“Yes.”
That earns me a small smile.
We drink most of the beverage and I set my mug down and turn toward her. She doesn’t move away. But she doesn’t movecloser either. I lift my hand, slow enough to stop if I need to, and brush my thumb along her lips where a little cream sits. I show her and she laughs.
But then, I move toward her jaw. She inhales softly, eyes glancing to my mouth. When I kiss her this time, I taste her first, sweet and bitter, the faint echo of chocolate and something deeper underneath. The sound she makes is barely a sound at all. It’s more a rush of air that hits me lower than I want to admit.
She leans into it, mouth strong and intent, like she’s not afraid to meet force with force. Her hands press flat against my chest, and for a second I think she means to push me back. She doesn’t. She uses it to anchor herself, drawing me in.
I let my palm slide up her spine, tracing the soft heat of her back through her shirt. For a moment, it feels like our bodies are remembering something our minds haven’t said out loud yet.
Nicole breaks the kiss first, but she doesn’t let go. Her hands slide up, cupping my jaw. She’s searching my face, as if cataloging every line and scar, every hint of what I’m holding back.
“You don’t have to be guarded,” she says.
I blink, caught off guard by how much I want to believe her. I press my forehead to hers, breathing her in. She smells earthy, sweat and salt and a trace of cocoa. I could get drunk on it. I want to get drunk on her.
But I promised her honesty, and I promised myself I’d never let want make me reckless again. I pull her closer by the waist, feeling the heat of her skin. Her body fits against mine like she’s always known where it belongs.
Nicole’s hands move down my back, slow and deliberate. She’s strong and solid, not a single ounce of her body unsure. Her lips find my jaw, my throat. I let my eyes close and just feel itfor a while, the pressure of her mouth. I ache for her and I’m not sure how far this is going or if I can’t stop at some point.
I back her up against the counter with a slow, measured movement. She lets me, hips tight to mine, never flinching, never looking away. I slide my palms up beneath her shirt, finding bare skin, the heat of her body a shock compared to the chill in my bones. She gasps, low and raw, and leans her head back, offering her throat. I take it, lips pressed to the tender skin there, tasting salt and the electric charge beneath. She’s not delicate. She’s alive, vibrating, the pulse in her throat pounding against my mouth.
My hands are under her shirt now, tracing the lines of her waist, the plane of her stomach, the edge of her ribs. She breathes my name.
“Harrison …”
Not loud, but with a soft tone that tells me she wants more.
“Yeah,” I say, voice thick.
She digs her fingers into my shoulders. It doesn’t hurt. I want more of it. I want her on the counter, so I lift her. Just enough to hear the surprise in her breath. I feel the shift in her weight as she settles, knees bracketing my hips.
Her calves draw around me, locking me in. I press harder between her thighs. My hands grip the edge of the counter on either side of her, close enough that she can’t pull away. But she’s not trying.
Her mouth is fierce and so is the way she kisses me, nothing shy or uncertain about it. She nips at my lower lip, then soothes it with her tongue. The taste of her, chocolate and cream mixing in a way that makes it taste like a sweet dare.
I kiss her again, hard and slow, and this time she pulls me in with both hands. She arches against me, her chest pressed tight, and the way she moves is not practiced or soft, but hungry and honest. Her thighs tense around my hips. She rocks againstme once and that’s all it takes for my body to go rigid, blood rushing to places that haven’t been this awake in a long time.
“Fuck,” I whisper against her mouth. Nicole smiles.
“Yeah,” she says. “That’s what I want too.”
She hitches her hips forward. I’m between her legs, hard enough to ache, every nerve sharpened and hungry when she speaks again.
“Harrison, I’m dirty.”
“Are you, Nicole?”
