I laughed, breathless and half-gone, and stopped holding back. I reached around, got my fingers on her clit, and rubbed in quick circles while I fucked her and her arms buckled and her forehead hit the counter and the sounds she was making got higher and more desperate.
I shifted my other hand to her ass. Slid my thumb down, pressed against her, circling. Testing.
"Yes," she said instantly. "God, yes."
I pushed my thumb into her ass, slow, past the tight ring of muscle, and she went rigid everywhere. Her pussy tightened around my cock and her whole body locked and she made a sound, guttural and raw, so hot my balls drew up.
"More," she said.
I fucked her in both places, cock and thumb, still working her clit, and she was gone. Her nails scraped the wood and she seized around me and said my name in a voice I'd never heard from her, broken open, desperate, stripped of every wall she'd ever built.
"I'm coming, Dane, I'm—"
She came screaming, her pussy clamping down on my cock in rhythmic pulses, her body bucking into me, and the force of it dragged me over. I buried myself deep and came so hard my vision went black at the edges, gripping her hips, her name in my mouth, the entire filing cabinet in my head reduced to ash.
THE FLOOR WAS NOT DESIGNEDfor two people. This was not a complaint.
She was half on top of me, one leg thrown over mine, her face against my chest. Whiskey was still dripping off the bar edge above us. Slow, steady, expensive.
"That's eighteen dollars a drip," she said.
"Add it to my tab."
"You don't have a tab. You drink water."
"I've been told my whiskey opinions are a liability."
She laughed. It vibrated through my chest and I reached for her hair without thinking, which was notable because I'd been calculating every move around this woman since Thursday. Theautopilot meant something. I shoved it aside for later, but later wasn't holding anything tonight.
"Your elbow's in my back," she said.
"Your floor needs padding."
"Renovation list." She propped up on one arm. Her lipstick was destroyed. Her hair was everywhere. She was grinning. Not the bar grin. This one was satisfied, private, a little smug. "Hey."
"Hey."
"That was—"
"Yeah."
"Articulate."
"Give me a minute. You broke my brain."
"Good."
She traced a line down my sternum with one finger, following the scar I'd gotten from a fence in El Paso five years ago. She didn't ask about it. Just mapped it with her fingertip, and when she reached the end of it she flattened her palm over my stomach and left it there.
"You're warm," she said. "I figured you'd run cold. All that composure."
"Turns out composure was load-bearing. You knocked it out and the whole temperature regulation went with it."
She grinned. "I'll add it to the list of things I broke tonight."
"Growing list."
"Blanton's glass. Your professional boundaries. Possibly your back, given this floor." She kissed me, lazy and warm, and everything that had been fast and fierce five minutes ago settled into a steadier heat. Same fire. Different rhythm.
