I didn’t realize I was shaking until he did that.
My hands hover uselessly before instinct kicks in. I catch the front of his shirt in my fists, curling into the soft, worn cotton over solid muscle.
He shifts, crowding me back against the counter. The edge digs into the small of my back. I gasp, and he swallows the sound.
His free hand plants on the counter beside my hip, bracketing me in. Heat rolls off him, surrounding me, filling my senses until there’s nothing but him.
Before I can catch my breath, he drops to his knees in front of me.
Holy shit…
Tension zips through my spine as I stare down at him. His hands are braced against my thighs, thumbs spreading warmth through denim, eyes locked on mine. He waits, mouth parted.My breath stutters, a pathetic, desperate sound, and he smiles. A lopsided, absolutely aware smile.
I should say something. There should be a witty comment, a too-loud laugh, a joke deflecting all of this back into the safety of banter. But words have abandoned me, replaced with the rush of blood and the wild, greedy thud of my heart.
He noses at my waistband, worshipping, presses his forehead there for a beat, and then looks up.
“Don’t you dare stop,” I whisper.
He grins, and in one practiced movement, he pops my button and slides the zipper down. I suck in a sharp breath as his fingertips skim beneath the denim, glide over the sliver of skin at my hip. He doesn’t look away. I’m pinned to his gaze while he peels me open, inch by careful inch. So slow it’s almost mean.
He drags my jeans down just past my knees, leaving my underwear in place. The air prickles cool against the inside of my thighs, offsetting the heat of his hands. He plants a kiss on the exposed line of my stomach, then lower, barely above the fabric. I twitch, a ridiculous, involuntary shiver, and he hums, satisfied, pressing his mouth to the soft skin there until my hips tip toward him, begging for more.
“You’re a menace,” I murmur.
“I’m just trying to do my job,” he murmurs, tongue flicking out to taste me through cotton. “Is this the right way?”
He’s teasing, sort of. I want to laugh, but my head tips back.
“I don’t know,” I manage, barely. “Feels like overachieving.”
He laughs against me, the sound a vibration that ripples up my torso and settles somewhere behind my ribs. Then his hands anchor at my knees, pushing them apart, just enough to let his head fit between. He noses lower, planting a line of slow kisses down the inside of my thigh.
His stubble rasps against new, stupidly sensitive skin, and I jolt, heat blooming in places I didn’t know had nerve endings.
“Careful,” he threatens. “People might hear.”
His tongue darts under the edge of my underwear, and I bite the inside of my arm to keep from making noise. He’s a bastard and a gentleman at once, unmoved by my squirming.
He pulls away, face flushed and clear-eyed. I’m so thoroughly, absurdly exposed, and all he wants to do is watch the way I fall apart. I feel him smiling between my knees. He likes my want, sees no reason to hide it, and the shamelessness of that should embarrass me, but instead, it’s a relief. I don’t have to pretend I don’t want this.
Every molecule of air is suddenly too bright, too sharp, and I flinch when his fingers skim my hip, looping the fabric of my underwear, sliding it down.
Everything slows.
His breath is hot on my skin, his hands gentle yet powerful. He strokes the inside of my thigh with a thumb, making lazy, thoughtless circles, and I realize how badly I want to be ruined by him.
Not just taken apart, but thoroughly, utterly undone.
He bows his head, lips mapping a trail to the apex of my legs, his hair tickling my stomach. The tension in my limbs is a whipcord, bowstring tight. His breath is light and devastating. He waits, the fraction of a second it takes to make sure I’m watching him. To make sure I see him seeing me.
Then his mouth dips lower, and everything shatters.
He’s all tongue and patience, fierce and gentle at the same time, and when I gasp, half mortified and half in awe, he laughs again, muffled by my skin. My knees threaten to slide off the edge of the counter, but he pins me, palms flat and firm, not letting me get away with even a millimeter of retreat.
The world narrows to wet, perfect pressure and the press of his cheeks between my thighs. I can’t keep quiet—I start to saysomething in protest or warning, but all that comes out is a whimper, high and ragged and not at all cool.
He doesn’t stop, he redoubles, mining for all the sounds I have left, smirking against my skin with this goddamn disproportionate confidence.
