"I need coffee," I said. Because I did. And because the alternative was letting him see exactly how fast my pulse had changed, which was information I wasn't giving up before eight in the morning.
I climbed out. His hand dragged along my thigh and let go at the last second and neither of us mentioned it. I walked to the kitchen in his shirt and nothing else, and behind me I heard the bed shift as he got up.
THE PERCOLATOR WASrunning and I was reaching for the mugs, top shelf, because I'd organized this kitchen at five-five and no one had ever cared about the top shelf until this week, when he was behind me.
The displacement of air first, then the warmth, and then his hands on my hips and his mouth on my neck and my fingers were still on the mug handle and my whole body went still.
"I was getting coffee," I said.
"I know." His lips pressed below my ear, slow. "Keep going."
"Hard to reach the mug when you're—"
He turned me around. My back hit the counter edge and he was right there, bare chest, gray sweatpants riding low, his hands braced on the tile on either side of me. The look on him wasn't the charm or the professional cool. This was the man from last night, and he was looking at me with an intent that made my thighs press together.
"I thought about this all night," he said against my jaw. "You asleep. Me not sleeping."
"That sounds like a you problem."
"It is." He lifted me onto the counter. "I'm solving it."
His mouth was on mine before I finished the breath, and the kiss wasn't last night's detonation. Slower, more deliberate, his hands sliding under the t-shirt and up my ribs while his tongue traced mine. He peeled the shirt over my head and dropped it on the floor and stepped between my thighs, lips trailing to my throat, my collarbone, lower. He took his time. Kissed across my stomach while I gripped the counter's edge and tried to remember that I was usually the one running this show.
"Dane—"
"Hold on."
He gripped my hips, pulled me to the counter's edge, and dropped to his knees and put his mouth on me and I stopped pretending I had a vote.
His tongue was deliberate and certain, gray eyes holding mine while he worked my clit with measured strokes, and the eye contact during it was obscene and electric and I grabbed his hair and his groan vibrated against me and my breath caught.
"Inside me," I said. "Now."
He stood, shoved his sweatpants down, and lifted me off the counter. I wrapped my legs around him and he pinned me against the kitchen wall and pushed his cock into me and the sound I made was not quiet and I did not care.
He fucked me standing, one hand under my ass, the other braced above my head, forehead against mine. I could see every muscle in his shoulders working, his jaw tight with control, and I reached down between us and got my fingers on my clit and his rhythm broke when he felt my hand.
"Fuck—Jenna—"
"Don't stop."
He didn't. Harder, faster, his breath hot against my skin, and I rubbed myself in tight circles and came with my teeth sunk into his shoulder and my whole body clamped around him. He followed seconds later, hips pinning me to the wall, a raw groan against my hair.
We stayed there. His forehead dropped to my shoulder and I felt him laughing before I heard it. His body shaking against mine, silent and real.
"What," I said.
"Coffee's done."
I listened. The percolator was clicking on the counter, finished, patient, completely ignored.
"Your fault," I said.
"Worth it."
"The coffee's going to be terrible."
"I'll drink it." He pulled back enough to look at me and the expression, warm, open, a little wrecked, was going to be a problem I dealt with after caffeine.
