She reaches up, fingers brushing my jaw. I turn into the touch, pressing a kiss to her palm. She shivers.
"I want you," she says. Simple and direct, the way she says most things when she stops overthinking.
Heat floods through me. "Here?"
"Here. Now. Before I lose my nerve and start making lists of all the reasons this is impractical."
I laugh, low and rough. "The kitchen is very small."
"You'll manage."
She's already tugging at my shirt. I help her, pulling it over my head and tossing it aside. Her hands splay across my chest, exploring. When her fingers trace one of my scars, I tense.
"These hurt?" she asks.
"Not anymore."
"Good." She leans in, pressing her mouth to the raised tissue. My breath catches. "Because I'm going to kiss every single one until you believe me when I say you're beautiful."
My throat tightens. "Maris."
"Shh." Another kiss, lower this time. "Let me."
So I do. I let her map me with her mouth, cataloging scars and muscle and all the parts of me I learned to think of as ugly or shameful. She treats each one like treasure. Like something worth keeping.
When I can't take it anymore, I catch her chin and tilt her face up. Her eyes are dark, pupils blown wide.
"My turn," I tell her.
I lift her onto the counter. She gasps, grabbing my shoulders for balance. The kitten stirs, opens one eye, and relocates to a safer distance with an annoyed chirp.
"Rude," Maris mutters.
I grin and kiss her throat. She arches into it, and I take my time working my way down. The buttons of her shirt give wayunder my fingers. She's not wearing anything underneath. My brain short-circuits.
"You're staring," she says.
"You're perfect."
"I'm average. Completely normal."
"Perfect," I insist, cupping her breasts. They fit my palms exactly. When I brush my thumbs over her nipples, she makes a sound that goes straight to my cock.
"Grath."
"Tell me what you want."
"You. I want you."
I kiss her, deep and claiming, and she hooks her legs around my waist. The angle presses us together, friction and heat even through layers of fabric.
We fumble with the rest of our clothes. Her jeans stick at her ankles. My belt buckle won't cooperate. She laughs, breathless and bright, and I drink in the sound.
Finally, skin against skin. She's warm and soft and fits against me like she was designed for exactly this.
"You're sure?" I ask, even though my control is hanging by a thread.
"I've never been more sure of anything."
