“I think we should go ahead and do that.” She gave a nod before flinging herself at him. He caught her in his arms.
With the visual of his mouth between her thighs, his body cooperated fully with heaps of spark and a massive dose of chemistry happening between them.
There was loads of mouth on mouth, hands everywhere, and sounds that probably scared the cat away with how wild they were.
He pressed her chest to chest, body to body, against his…fridge. His leg slipped between her legs, and she groaned.
Right.
“The locale doesn’t make much sense, but it’s what we have to work with, so onward,” he said against her mouth.
“I like the location,” she said, breathy, between kisses.
He’d make it happen.Happenbeing the most inappropriate word ever because he was enjoying the hell out of this happening.
As was she, given the sounds coming from her throat.
Her hands traced the line of his throat and moved up his jawline.
“You’re sure you’re good with this?” he asked, pressing his mouth against her mouth. Pressing wasn’t pushing, yeah?
He allowed, for the briefest of moments, his hands to roam down her body, along the edges of her breasts, to her waist and hips, stopping before he made it to the edge of her skirt.
“Totally good,” she murmured against his mouth, pressing her ass right into his hands.
“I want to undress you,” he said between the frantic kisses. “Lay you on the counter and eat you until you come.”
In response, she moaned and gripped his suit jacket by the lapels and slipped it over his shoulders, roaming her palms along his biceps and somehow around, pulling until the jacket was basically cuffing him, and he had no use of his hands. No use at all because those hands were stuck behind his back, and he was the one against the fridge with no space in-between.
She did things to his mouth he’d forgotten could be done.
His blood was pounding hard and his breaths were uneven as he tried, and failed, to control his excitement. Tried to keep up with her kisses as his erection pressed against her belly through his slacks.
If a donger could wish that someone would let him out to play, his made that wish right then.
“Ethan,” she sighed against his lips, still with this crazy make-out sesh against his fridge.
“Right here, love,” he replied, keeping up with her mouth as she trailed it everywhere.
The mewl that came from the back of her throat was feral and feline and…the thin strip of a rubber band holding his self-control in check seemed to snap clear free.
“My turn,” he said.
No longer able to keep his hands from her, he took hold. An odd thought about marshmallows and dessert nagged at his subconscious even as he pushed the suit jacket to the floor and reversed their positions, letting his hard length press against her core through the layers of cotton and polyester, allowing the hardness of him to pleasure the softness of her—even though they were fully clothed.
“I’ve never put the kitchen to this use before,” he said against her mouth.
The kitchen was a sacred space for him. A place for only him—not a spot for a quickie.
Sure, he knew there were chefs who got it on regularly in their kitchen spaces. Even a bloke with no skills and a decent béchamel could make the kitchen a panty-dropping locale. That’s what he’d heard, at least.
Not his game.
This place was special.
Skin pressed on skin, lips against lips, the length of him against—and between—all of her.
Her breasts heaved against his chest, the air filling her chest and releasing in quick bursts that matched his.
