“Are you checking me out?” he asks, winking.
“Maybe.” I pop my hip and reach for the mallet, but my eyes keep finding their way back to him.
“Good,” his voice drops as he steps behind me. His free hand settles on my waist and squeezes once. It’s gentle, sure, but also a little possessive. “Now tell me what to do.”
“We can start small.”
I slip into my best teacherly tone, but it wobbles the second his hand grazes against the sliver of skin at my waist. A shiver of heat darts up my spine. “Say something small,” I manage, breath catching, “and check in. Make sure we’re…you know?”
“Communicating?” he murmurs. I hum as his lips brush my collarbone. He presses a kiss there, his hand drifting higher. “We’re sure no one will come in here?”
“Mm-hmm.” My eyes flutter shut. “Bill locked the doors.”
“Thank God for Bill,” he whispers against my skin.
I laugh, unable to contain myself, and turn toward him. He steps into me, dropping the bat on the table as our bodies press against it. His hands flex on my waist, tension rolling through his muscles like he’s fighting whatever restraint he has left. I’m losing mine too. I want him right here on this table.
He lets out a quiet sound against my neck, and that’s all it takes. I grab his face and crash my mouth into his. We’re all tangled limbs and messy, hungry kisses, barely staying upright. My teeth catch his bottom lip, and his whole body goes taut. Desire floods me like lava, hot and molten. There’s no stopping it.
His hands slide into my hair, kissing me hard and fast, until he stops abruptly. Breathing hard and grinning like a giddy teenager, he rests his forehead against mine.
“We need to stop,” he grumbles, like this is the last thing he actually wants to do.
“Why?” I whine, looping my arms around his neck.
“Because we are grown adults with a bed at home.” He kisses me once. “And a shower.” Another kiss. “And a kitchen floor.” He hums the words against my lips, and the sound skitters through me, all the way to my toes.
“Now,” I say, smiling, “who’s trouble?”
Steven is strong-willed—always has been. But watching him barely hold himself together? It’s devastatingly sexy. And somehow, it makes me feel sexy too.
He must read it all over my face, because he murmurs, “I want you so bad, Mrs. Jones.” He draws in a steadying breath. “But I want to dothisfor you too.” He nods toward the table of piled rubble, waiting to be wrecked.
The tension coiled low in my stomach slowly unspools at this sentiment, at the care in his words, his effort. My nose prickles, and I straighten, mentally buttoning myself up.
“Yes, you’re right,” I say. “Let’s do this.”
“Ladies first.”
With the mallet hanging at my side, I take a slow breath. Steven circles to the far side of the table and waits.
“You left your socks on the bathroom floor last week.” I bring the mallet down on a chunk of clay.
He snorts, watching me with eyes so earnest it makes me blush.
“You threw away our leftovers too soon.” He swings the bat and pieces fly.
I bite my lip to keep from giggling. It was sushi, and it was a week old.
“I hate when you don’t make the bed the right way,” I say, landing another hit.
“I hate that you use all the hot water.”
I bark out a laugh. “I hate that you can use memory loss as an excuse.”
He laughs, loud and straight from his belly. But as he lifts the bat again, he catches my eyes, and there’s a tiny flicker of hesitation there. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.
“That was a good one,” he says gently. “I hate my memory loss too. I hate it so much.” He swings, hard. Then again. I can see his anger pulling at his reserves, but he reins it in, hitting softer on the third strike.
