When I pull back, she sighs—a soft, involuntary sound that shoots straight through me. Makes me want to abandon every plan I had, skip dinner, skip everything, and get lost in her until neither of us remembers our own names.
But I cooked, and I set the whole damn scene, and I can’t throw it away after all that effort.
“Come on,” I murmur, lacing my fingers through hers and tugging her gently toward the kitchen.
The smell of roasted garlic and butter lingers in the air, mingling with the faint sweetness of the wine already poured.Plates are set on the island, candles flickering low, shadows stretching warm and intimate across the counters.
I pull her stool out like a gentleman—which, frankly, is hilarious, because five minutes from now I’ll be plotting how to undo those jeans with my teeth.
She glances toward the dining table, one brow lifting. “We aren’t sitting there?”
“Nope.” I drop into the stool beside hers with a satisfied sigh. “I like it better here. Feels more normal.”
“Normal…” she repeats, skeptical, but smiling.
“Yeah. You know. Less formal, less stiff.” I roll my shoulders, then swivel my chair sideways, demonstrating.
“If we eat at the island, it just feels like us. Side by side, talking. I can turn my chair like this—” I do it, the motion casual but deliberate. “Slide a knee between your legs—” I slide my knee, just a nudge against her thigh. “Maybe sneak a peek under your skirt, and… you know. Normal.”
Her laugh bursts out, bright and sharp, filling every corner of the room.
“But I’m wearing jeans.”
“Hey.” I lift my hands in mock surrender, grinning. “It’s not my fault you failed to read the subliminal assignment, Tote.”
She keeps laughing, shaking her head, and that sound—it does things to me. Untangles every knot I’ve carried since Saturday, every trace of doubt.
Just like that, everything is easy again.
Dinner doesn’t last long. Not because the food is bad (I nailed it, thank you very much), but because every other bite is interrupted by something else.
Her hand brushing mine. My lips brushing her cheek. A joke murmured against my mouth before it turns into another kiss.
I keep my arm draped across the back of her stool, fingers toying with the ends of her hair, grazing her shoulder,slipping against her skin. She leans into me every time like gravity insists on it.
Wine vanishes. Plates empty. And the rest of the world dissolves.
One kiss becomes two, then three, then something hungrier. She shifts, turning sideways, legs bracketing mine, and I rise without thinking, slotting myself between her knees.
Her arms loop around my neck, body pressed flush to mine like she was made for this.
My hands grip her hips, then slide lower, over the curve of her ass, and I lift. She gasps but clings tighter, legs wrapping around my waist as I carry her down the hall.
Tori’s laugh breaks between kisses, her breath warm against my mouth, her body alive and pliant in my arms.
I trail my mouth down her jaw, along the line of her throat, tasting her skin. She tilts her head back in offering, and I groan into the hollow of her collarbone, already half mad with hunger.
That silky, tempting wrap shirt slips, neckline gaping. I tug at the edge with my teeth, growling against her chest, “Open it. Lose it.”
Her hands obey, untying one side, then the other, until the whole thing comes undone. It falls open, then slides off her shoulders, landing somewhere behind us.
I keep walking, and my eyes catch what she’s wearing beneath. Black lace, sheer, a balconette bra that leaves nothing to the imagination. And then I see the flash of silver.
“When. The fuck. Did you get them pierced?” My voice comes out guttural, torn straight from my chest.
I don’t give her time to answer before my mouth is on her, tugging one of the bars with my teeth. She arches, moans, her whole body tightening against me.
“The day after the funeral,” she breathes.
