When it settles, I lock eyes with him. No jokes now. Just honest.
“I’m not trying to make this weird,” I say. “Or break rules. I just… need a bit of help tonight.”
He meets my eyes. He holds my gaze. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t fill the space with jokes. Just looks at me like he’s weighing something and already knows the answer.
The silence stretches. My pulse is loud in my ears. My skin feels too tight.
“Please,” I whisper, and it comes out smaller than I intend. Honest. Bare.
That does it.
He takes the jar gently from my hand, sets it on the counter like it matters, then grips my hips and lifts me onto the kitchen island in one smooth movement that steals the air from my lungs.
“Oh,” I breathe, because that gesture has rendered me utterly undone.
He steps in between my legs, hands firm, grounding, and kisses me.
There is nothing friendly about it.
It’s hot and unrestrained and full of intent. His mouth claims mine like he’s been holding back for days. Weeks. Longer. I fist my hands in his T-shirt and he groans softly, the sound vibrating straight through me.
This is not careful. This is not polite.
This is him kissing me like he wants me. Like the bedroom ban is still there, still respected, but absolutely not invited to the party.
My legs tighten instinctively around his hips and he deepens the kiss, slow and devastating, like he’s taking his time on purpose. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathing hard, foreheads touching, the kitchen spinning slightly around us.
“Still okay?” he murmurs.
“Yes,” I say immediately. “Very.”
He smirks, low and wicked, and leans back in.
His fingers slide beneath the waistband of my pyjama bottoms, knuckles grazing the soft swell of my belly before dipping lower, like he’s reminding himself she’s there too. I suck in a sharp breath when he traces the lace edge of my knickers, his touch light, deliberate, infuriatingly precise.
“You’re so fucking warm,” he murmurs, voice rough, breath brushing my ear.
I lie back, the kitchen island cool against my spine, my body already betraying me. My thighs part without my permission, giving him exactly the access he’s looking for.
His other hand cradles my jaw, fingers firm, turning my face to his. When his mouth crashes into mine it’s sudden and consuming, like something snapping into place. I moan into him, fingers tangling in his hair, noticing absurd details like the silver at his temples catching the light.
He kisses like he’s been starving. Tongue deep. Demanding. No patience left.
My pyjama top rides up, cool air hitting skin that’s already too sensitive, my nipples tightening sharply.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to look at me.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he growls, voice thick, hands sliding up to cup my sensitive breasts under my top, thumbs brushing over my nipples like he knows exactly how little it will take.
A broken sound escapes me when he pinches lightly, heat shooting straight through me. My back arches, pushing into his hands, wanting more, always more. His mouth trails down my neck, lips and teeth scraping my pulse point, making me gasp his name.
“Geoff—”
He bites just enough to make me squirm.
His hands leave my breasts, sliding down my sides, hooking into the waistbands of my PJ-bottoms and knickers before pulling them down, sending a fresh rush of heat through me.
