He spins me around. My back hits the counter edge and his mouth finds mine before I've finished turning. The kiss is filthy from the first second, his tongue sliding against mine, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to pull me flush against him. I can feel him through his pants. One of his hands slides up my spine and fists in my hair, tilting my head back to deepen the angle.
I grab the front of his shirt with both hands and pull because the taste of him is making my brain short-circuit and the cramp in my belly is tightening into genuine need. His thigh pushes between my legs and the pressure against my hardening cock drags a moan from me that echoes off the kitchen tile.
He pulls back, just enough to break the kiss, his forehead resting against mine, his breathing uneven. His hand is still fisted in my hair, his thigh is still pressed between my legs, and I'm still gripping his shirt.
"Amos, don't stop." The words come out before my pride can intercept them. "Please don't stop."
I can see the effort it takes him to hold his position instead of pushing forward, the hunger he's choosing to leash evident in his expression as his grip on my hip tightens.
"Dominic would kill me if I had you without him." His voice comes out rough. "And I would deserve it."
"I don't care about Dominic right now." My hips rock forward against his thigh and the friction makes both of us groan. "I care about you and what you're doing to me in this kitchen."
"Later." He presses one more kiss against my mouth, slower than the first, his tongue tracing my lower lip before he pulls away entirely. "When Dom's done. He'll want to watch."
The words land in my gut with a heat that has nothing to do with the fading cramp. The image of Dominic in a chair with his legs spread while Amos takes me apart makes slick pool so suddenly I press my thighs together hard enough that my knees lock.
Amos watches me process that, and I want to slap the satisfaction off his face and kiss him at the same time.
"You're cruel," I tell him, my voice wrecked from one kiss.
"I'm practical." He steps back and picks up the knife like nothing happened, like he didn't just rearrange my entire nervous system against the kitchen counter. "Now show me how to roll this dough, because the galette isn't going to assemble itself."
I stare at him. My lips are swollen, my hair is wrecked from his fist, my underwear is damp, and he's standing at the cutting board asking me about deglazing techniques.
"I hate you," I say, and take the knife from his hand.
He grins. "No you don't."
The galette comes together despite the shaky start, and by the time it's in the oven the kitchen smells like warm cinnamon and baked butter and us. Amos keeps finding reasons to touch me while we work, his hand grazing the small of my back when he reaches past me for the honey, his fingers brushing mine when he hands me the sugar, his hip bumping against mine at the stove. Every contact is casual enough to deny and deliberate enough to feel.
We eat at the kitchen island instead of the dining room because the dining room belongs to Richard and neither of us need to say that out loud. Amos asks me about the restaurant, about my training, about the classes I took in school, and I talk more than I have in weeks because he leans forward on his elbows and asks follow-up questions that prove he's actually hearing me instead of waiting for his turn to talk.
"You should have been working in forensic accounting this whole time." He says it while cutting into his slice with the side of his fork. "Not fetching coffee for my father."
"Your father doesn't strike me as the type to let his personal Omega pursue a career in fraud detection." The bitterness in my voice catches me off guard. "Sorry, I just... it's frustrating. I'm good at this and nobody's ever let me do it."
"Not yet." Amos meets my eyes. "But circumstances change."
Something about the way he says it makes the hair on the back of my neck prickle. The words carry too much weight for a casual dinner conversation. I file them away with the shared looks between him and Dominic over my head, the way they coordinate their handling of me, the conversation I overheard in fragments last week that went silent the moment I entered the room.
"What does that mean?"
"It means you're smart enough to do more than file expense reports." He takes another bite and the moment passes. "More wine?"
I let him change the subject because the wine is good and I don't want to ruin the evening by asking questions whose answers might break whatever this fragile thing is between us.
We clean up together, Amos washing and me drying, standing hip to hip at the sink. My mother's Alphas didn't wash dishes. They didn't stand beside you at a sink with soap suds on their forearms telling you about the worst meal they ever ate at a board dinner.
"The risotto was actually gray, Niah. Gray." He scrubs the baking sheet while I dry the mixing bowl. "The CFO ate three servings because he was too afraid to tell the CEO's wife it tasted like wallpaper paste."
I'm laughing so hard I nearly drop a plate. The sound catches me off guard because I can't remember the last time I let myself laugh without swallowing it halfway through.
Amos looks at me and his expression shifts into something unguarded enough to make the laughter die in my throat.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing." He turns back to the sink, but the tips of his ears are red. "You should laugh more. It suits you."
