"Now grip it."
I cover her hand with mine. The size difference is obscene. My hand swallows hers, my rough, calloused palm rasping against her soft skin. I can feel the delicate bones of her fingers beneath mine. My other hand comes to rest on the door frame, right next to her head, boxing her in.
"Lean into it," I instruct. My lips are right at her ear. I can feel the heat radiating off her. "Use your weight, Avery. Not just your wrist."
She leans forward, pressing into the tool. Her ass bumps back against my thighs.
I freeze.
Every muscle in my body locks up. The contact is electric. Through the thin flannel of my shirt and the cotton of her panties, I feel the soft give of her glutes against my quads. My cock responds instantly, violently, surging hard against the denim of my jeans.
"Like... like this?" she whispers. Her voice is shaky.
"Yeah," I choke out. "Turn it."
She turns. With my hand guiding hers, the screw bites into the wood and tightens effortlessly.
"There," she breathes.
She doesn't move away. Neither do I.
The silence stretches, taut as a bowstring. The fire crackles in the other room, but the only sound in the kitchen is the ragged rhythm of our breathing. I should step back. I should walk away, go chop wood, go sit in the snow until my blood freezes.
But I can't.
I slide my hand from hers, but I don't retreat. My hand drifts down her arm, tracing the line of the flannel sleeve. I feel her vibrate.
"You did it," I say low.
"Oliver..."
She turns in the circle of my arms. Her back is against the pantry door now. She looks up at me, her eyes wide, pupils blown so black the blue is just a thin ring. Her lips are parted, wet.
"What are you doing to me?" she whispers.
"Nothing you don't want," I growl.
The restraint snaps.
I crash my mouth down on hers.
I don't know how to be gentle. I devour her like I’ve been starving for a decade and she’s the first meal I’ve seen. My tongue sweeps into her mouth, tasting the coffee, tasting her sweetness, claiming the space as mine.
She makes a noise—a whimpering moan that vibrates against my lips—and her hands fly up to tangle in my beard. She pulls me closer, her body arching into mine.
I grind my hips forward, my thick, engorged cock a steel bar crushing against her soaking pussy. Even through the layers of denim and flannel, the friction is a violent promise of what’s coming; I need to be inside her. My hands slide down, my large fingers digging into her ass, kneading her like I’m already trying to leave my permanent prints in her skin. I lift her higher, hauling her up until her dripping pussy is slammed directly against the bulge of my cock straining against my jeans. I can smell the raw, heavy musk of her arousal now, thick and unmistakable, overriding the scent of vanilla until my head spins.
"You're so small," I growl against her mouth, nipping at her bottom lip until she gasps. "So fucking soft."
"You're... huge," she manages, her voice breaking.
"Does it scare you?"
"Yes." She kisses me back, hard and desperate, her tongue tangling with mine. "But don't stop. Don't you dare stop."
I growl and thrust my hips, a brutal, rolling grind that mashes my heavy balls against her thighs and my rock-hard cock directly against her swollen clit. She cries out, her head slamming back against the wood, exposing the long, pale line of her throat.
"Please," she whimpers.
