My back hits the doorframe. When did we move? How did we get here?
Carlos makes a sound low in his throat, somewhere between a groan and a growl, pure alpha, and it does things to me. Things that should probably be illegal in a few states.
His mouth leaves mine, trails hot kisses down my jaw, finds the sensitive spot below my ear that makes me gasp and grab his shoulders for support.
"Jess," he breathes against my skin, and the way he says my name makes my toes curl.
His teeth graze my neck. Not biting. Just testing. Teasing. Promising things I shouldn't be thinking about in a flooded bedroom at four in the morning.
"Carlos," I manage, but it comes out breathy and desperate and nothing like how I meant it to sound.
His hand slides under the hem of my sweatshirt. Finds bare skin. His palm is rough with calluses, warm against my cold stomach, and I shiver for entirely non-temperature-related reasons.
"We should stop," he says, but his hand keeps moving. Up my ribs. Higher.
"Probably."
His thumb brushes the underside of my breast through my damp t-shirt, and I make a sound that would be embarrassing if I had any brain cells left to be embarrassed with.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. His eyes are wild. His hair is a complete disaster from my fingers. His lips are swollen. There's a flush creeping up his neck, disappearing under the collar of his henley, and I want to follow it with my tongue.
"Jess." His voice is wrecked. Destroyed. "If we don't stop now, I'm not going to be able to. And you're vulnerable, and your omega is in pre-heat, and I don't want to be that guy who takes advantage."
I reach up and cup his face. Feel the scratch of stubble under my palm. The warmth of his skin. The way he leans into my touch like he's been starving for it.
"Fix my pipes," I say. Clear. Certain. "And then come downstairs. I'll make coffee. We'll talk about... everything. All of it. The kiss. The running. The six years. Everything."
"And if you change your mind when I come back down?"
"I won't." I smile, and it feels real. Genuine. The first real smile I've managed in days. "But if I do, we'll just drink coffee and you can tell me about dovetail joints until I fall asleep from boredom."
"My joinery talk is not boring," he protests, but he's smiling too.
"It's a little boring."
"You used to love my joinery talk."
"I was being polite."
"You're a monster."
He kisses me again, but softer this time. Sweeter. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, coaxing them open, and when I let him in, the taste of him floods my senses. His hand slides from my jaw to cup the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my wet hair, and I melt against him. My palms flatten against his chest, feeling the rapid thunder of his heartbeat through the henley, and I realize this isn't just a kiss.
It's a promise.
A beginning instead of an ending.
Then he steps back, grabs his tool belt, and turns toward the bathroom with visible effort, adjusting his jeans in a way that makes it very clear exactly how much he doesn't want to stop.
"Thirty minutes," he says without looking at me, like looking at me will break his resolve. "Maybe forty. Then I'm coming downstairs and we're having that conversation."
"I'll be waiting. With coffee. And possibly snacks. Do you still like those chocolate chip cookies your mom makes?"
"I like any cookies."
"Good to know."
I watch him disappear into the bathroom, listen to the sound of him working, the clank of tools and the sound of running water, and touch my fingers to my still-tingling lips.
