“Stop asking like you want permission,” she said quietly. “Either walk away now—” Her hand slid into the front of my jacket, fingers curling hard. “—or admit you’re already all in.”
The kitchen was too small for what we were about to do. Every surface, every appliance, every damn coffee mug was a witness to the fact that we were crossing a line that had been fraying for days.
I didn’t wait. I didn’t ask again. I hauled her against me, lifting her just enough to clear the counter, and backed her into the edge. She gasped as her hips hit the granite, but the sound was swallowed by my mouth. This wasn't a kiss; it was a riot. It was teeth and tongue and the taste of the coffee we hadn’t even had time to drink.
She didn’t just take it. She gave it back. Her hands tore at my jacket, shoving it down my arms, and I let it fall to the floor without caring where it landed. The moment her palms hit my chest, through the thin dress shirt, I felt the burn. It wasn’t just desire. It was rage. It was the poison. It was the dead body and the Unsub and the way we’d been dancing around this since the moment she walked into the safe house.
“You have five seconds,” I gritted against her mouth, my hand fisting in her hair, tilting her head back to expose the long, pale line of her throat. “To tell me to stop.”
“Make me,” she snarled, her nails digging into my shoulders.
That was it.
I gripped her thighs and hauled her fully onto the counter, knocking a stack of paperwork to the floor. Papers scattered like leaves, irrelevant. I stepped between her legs, forcing them wide,and the friction against my fly was a near-physical pain. I was hard, aching, and done with pretending otherwise.
Her eyes went wide, then dark. “Brewster.”
“Elliot,” I corrected, roughly, and bit the side of her neck.
She cried out, her head falling back, her body arching into mine. It was permission. It was surrender. It was everything I shouldn't take and everything I couldn't refuse.
My hands weren't gentle. They couldn't be. I wanted to mark her. I wanted to leave bruises on her skin that matched the ones she was leaving on my psyche. I yanked her shirt up, uncaring of the buttons that popped and skittered across the floor, and tore the lace of her bra aside. Her breasts spilled into my hands, heavy and perfect, and I lowered my head to take a nipple into my mouth.
She hissed, her fingers tangling in my hair, holding me there. “Yes.”
I sucked hard, feeling her peak tighten against my tongue, feeling her heart hammer against my ribs. The scent of her—clean skin and arousal—filled my head, displacing everything else. The case. Washington. Flint. It all vanished. There was only this. Only the heat of her skin and the desperate need to be inside her.
I reached between us, fumbling with my belt, the buckle clinking in the quiet kitchen. She reached down too, her fingers brushing mine, shoving my hands away to take over herself. She was impatient. She was shaking.
“Hurry,” she demanded.
I groaned as her hand wrapped around me, her grip firm and sure through the fabric. I wanted that skin on mine. I wanted to feel her bare.
I shoved her pants down, along with her underwear, in one rough tug. She lifted her hips to help me, kicking them away when they tangled at her ankles. She was bare, open, exposed onmy kitchen counter, and the sight of her nearly brought me to my knees.
I dragged her to the edge, her legs wrapping around my waist, and freed myself. The first brush of my cock against her wet heat made me swear.
“Look at me,” I ordered.
Her eyes snapped to mine, glassy and unfocused.
“You wanted this,” I said, lining myself up, pressing against her entrance, feeling the way her body tried to pull me in. “You wanted to know what happens when you stop pushing.”
“Do it,” she breathed.
I drove into her in one thrust.
She choked out a cry, her head falling back, her inner walls clamping down around me like a vice. It was intense. Overwhelming. She was tight and wet and so damn hot it burned.
I didn't give her time to adjust. I didn't give myself time to think. I set a rhythm that was brutal, punishing, fueled by every hour of the last two days that I’d spent wanting her and denying myself.
“Yes,” she moaned, her nails clawing at my back through my shirt. “Elliot, harder.”
I grabbed her hips, holding her in place as I slammed into her, the sound of skin against skin filling the room. It was wet and obscene and perfect. I watched her face, the way her lips parted, the way her eyes squeezed shut as the pleasure built. I wanted to see her break. I wanted to be the one to break her.
I reached between us, finding her clit with my thumb, and rubbed the tight bundle of nerves in time with my thrusts.
She sobbed, her body bowing off the counter. “I’m going to?—”
