The kitchen is quiet. Early dawn light filters through the curtains, turning everything soft gray. She's standing across the counter from me, and the white t-shirt is thin enough that I can see the shape of her body underneath it, the curve of her breasts, the shadow of her nipples against the fabric, the dip of her waist. Her legs are long and bare and she's not wearing anything underneath and I know this because the t-shirt clings to her hips and there are no lines.
"No," I say. "It's not all the job."
She comes around the counter. Barefoot on the wood floor, the hem of the shirt shifting against her thighs. She stops in front of me. Close. The same distance as the mountain, as the wall in the kitchen two nights ago. Close enough that the warmth of her body pushes back the cold still clinging to my skin.
"Good," she says.
She reaches up and grips the front of my shirt. Pulls me down to her.
This kiss is different from the one in the kitchen. That one was discovery. This one is a decision. Her mouth is hot, urgent, tasting like coffee and want, and she kisses me with the precision of a woman who has decided to stop thinking and start taking.
I pull her against me. Both hands on her waist, fingers digging into the soft cotton, lifting her into me. She gasps against my mouth when our bodies align, and I swallow the sound and give her one back, a groan that comes from somewhere deep in my chest when her hips roll against mine and I feel the heat of her through my tactical pants.
Her hands push under my shirt. Her palms are warm against my bare stomach, and my muscles jump under her touch. She pushes the shirt up and I break the kiss long enough to pull it over my head. Her eyes drop to my chest. My shoulders. The PJ motto tattooed along my ribs. Her fingers trace the ink, and her touch is so light it borders on surgical.
"These things I will do," she reads softly. The Pararescue creed.
"That others may live." I finish it. My voice is wrecked. "Lex."
"I know." She pulls the t-shirt over her head.
The world stops.
She's naked underneath. Completely. Full breasts with dusky pink nipples already tight from the cold or from wanting or from both. A stomach that's soft, not flat, real. Hips that flare intocurves that make my hands ache. A thatch of trimmed blonde hair between her thighs.
She's the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life.
She watches me look at her. I can see the flicker of vulnerability, the instinct to cover herself, the awareness of every year between us. She doesn't cover herself. She stands there, chin lifted, shoulders back, naked in her kitchen at dawn, and lets me see her.
I close the distance. Cup her face in both hands. Kiss her forehead. Her temple. The fine lines at the corner of her eye that she thinks make her look old and I think make her look lived-in and extraordinary.
"You're stunning," I tell her, and my voice cracks on the word.
Her breath shudders out. She pulls me back to her mouth and the kiss goes nuclear.
I lift her. Her legs wrap around my waist, and the hot center of her presses against my stomach, wet and scorching through the fabric. I carry her to the bed in four strides. Lay her down on the white comforter and look at her spread out beneath me, platinum hair fanned across the pillow, bare skin flushed pink, blue eyes almost black with want.
I kneel between her thighs. She reaches for my belt and I catch her wrists. Press them gently into the mattress above her head.
"Not yet." I lower my mouth to her throat. Taste the salt of her skin, the perfume that's faded overnight into something warmer and more honest. I work my way down. Her collarbone. The slope of her breast. I close my mouth over her left nipple and suck, and her back arches off the bed with a sound that's close to a sob.
I take my time. One breast, then the other. Tongue circling each nipple, teeth grazing the sensitive peak until she's writhingbeneath me, her freed hands gripping my hair, pulling me closer. I kiss down her stomach. Feel it tense and soften under my mouth. Press my lips to the swell of her hip.
Her thighs open for me and I settle between them. The scent of her arousal is warm, musky, intoxicating. I press my mouth against her inner thigh and she jerks.
"Hayes."
"I've got you."
I spread her open with my thumbs and drag my tongue in a flat, slow stroke up the length of her pussy. She moans. Not the controlled, careful sounds she's been letting slip for days. A full, throaty moan that fills the cabin and goes straight to my cock, so hard now it's painful against my zipper.
I lap at her clit with slow, deliberate strokes. Learning her. The way her hips lift when I press harder. The way her breath catches when I circle the swollen bud with just the tip of my tongue. The way her fingers tighten in my hair and pull when I suck gently, rhythmically, building a pattern she can ride.
She's vocal. I didn't expect that, but God, I love it. Every stroke of my tongue pulls sounds out of her, soft cries, breathy curses, my name repeated in a rhythm that matches the roll of her hips against my mouth.
I slide two fingers inside her. She's tight and soaking wet, her walls gripping me immediately, and the sound she makes when I curl my fingers against her front wall is the filthiest, most beautiful thing I've ever heard.
"Right there," she gasps. "Don't stop."
