“You do,” I say quietly. “Corner of your mouth.”
“Oh.” She lifts her hand, misses it entirely. “Where?”
“Let me,” I say.
I reach up and wipe it away with my thumb, the movement slow, deliberate. Her skin is warm. Softer than I expect. The kitchen feels very small all of a sudden.
My thumb is streaked white.
I do not think about it. I bring it to my mouth and suck the cream off, eyes never leaving hers.
Her gaze drops to my lips.
Something shifts. Noticeably. Inevitable.
“That’s unfair,” she breathes.
She steps in, hand fisting in the front of my jacket, pulling me down just enough.
And then she kisses me.
Not tentative. Not testing. Full and certain and heat-soaked, like the decision has already been made and she’s simply catching up to it. Her mouth is warm, insistent, tasting faintly of coffee and sugar and something that is suddenly everywhere. Her. The press of her tits against my chest. The way her tongue slides against mine, bold and demanding. My hands find her waist on instinct, fingers digging into the soft flesh through the thin fabric of her T-shirt and apron, and she makes this little sound, half moan, half growl, that goes straight down my spine.
For a split second, I register the absurdity of it. The empty kitchen. The refrigeration humming softly. The tray of tiramisu setting quietly in the fridge, already forgotten. The thought should stop me. Should make me pull back.
It doesn’t.
Instead, my hand slides up her ribs, thumb brushing the underside of her breast through the cotton, feeling the weight of it, the heat of her. She arches into the touch, her nipple hardening under my palm even through the fabric, and I groan into her mouth, my body reacting hard and fast, my cock pulsing and desperate. The counter digs into my hips as she pushes me back. I slide my hand between her legs and can feel the heat of her cunt through her yoga pants like a brand.
I break the kiss just long enough to breathe, forehead dropping to hers, our lips still brushing. The kitchen is too quiet except for the sound of her breathing, ragged and unguarded, her chest rising and falling against mine.
“This,” I say low and steady, “is a terrible idea.”
She smiles, breathless, eyes bright with something that looks dangerously like victory. “Disastrous.”
I kiss her again.
This time it’s messy. Teeth knocking. Tongues tangling. Her hands fumbling at the front of my jacket while I tug the apron knot loose and push it aside, then hook my fingers under the hem of her T-shirt and drag it up. She lifts her arms without hesitation, letting me pull it off, revealing the black lace bra underneath, her tits spilling full and heavy from the cups. I push down the fabric, her nipples dark and already pebbled greet me.
I palm one, rolling the stiff peak between my fingers, and she gasps, her head falling back as I duck down to take it into my mouth.
“Fuck—” Her fingers tighten in my hair, holding me there as I suck hard, my tongue circling her nipple before I bite just enough to make her whimper. The taste of her skin is salt and warmth. My free hand slides down her stomach, over the generous curve of her hips, and I push her yoga pants down in one sharp pull, letting them fall to the floor around her ankles.
She steps out of them, kicks them aside, and stands there in nothing but her trainers, her bra and black lace knickers, thighs thick and soft. My mouth waters.
“You’re overdressed,” she murmurs, voice husky as she drags my jacket off my shoulders. I let her strip me down to my undershirt, then that too, her nails scraping down my chest as she pushes me back against the counter. The cold steel bites into my skin, but I barely notice. All I can focus on is the way her hands are working at my belt, theway her breath stutters when she frees my cock, thick and leaking, from my boxers.
“Flippin’ heck,” she breathes, wrapping her hand around me. “No wonder you’re so cocky.”
I laugh, but it breaks into a groan as she strokes me, her thumb smearing pre-cum over the head. “Less talking,” I manage, voice rough, and then I’m spinning her around, pressing her to the counter, hands firm on her hips. “Up.”
She doesn’t hesitate. She hops, boosting herself onto the counter, her arse hitting the metal with a soft thud. I step between her thighs, my dick brushing her stomach as I hook my fingers into the waistband of her knickers and drag them down her legs. She lifts her hips to help, and then she’s bare in front of me, her cunt glistening, swollen, the scent of her thick enough to taste.
“Fuck, you’re wet,” I growl, dragging a finger through her folds. She’s dripping, slick coating my skin, and when I circle her clit she jerks, back arching hard.
“Been thinking about this all night,” she admits, voice wrecked. “About you. About this.”
That’s it.
