“I can’t even…” She gripped at his sleeves, adjusting her stance just that tiniest bit so the long, hard length of his erection slipped further between her thighs. The fabric was nothing. Also, everything.
She moved against his hardness and made a small, but audible, “Mm-hmm.”
He kissed her then and let his lips talk with no words.
She responded, her body screaming in the affirmative as his blood heated just to the edge of perfection. The spot where the bubbles formed around the rim of the pan without anything getting burned.
His hands were in her hair. She gripped the lapels of his shirt again. Gripping them like they were a lifeline to something neither of them knew possible.
A look of hesitation crossed her features.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I don’t know what I’m even doing. God, it’s been forever.” Her voice cracked as she spoke.
“Don’t worry, then. I’ve got you.” Gentle, like she was the fussiest of soufflés, he moved her to the floor. He laid her on the tile. Putting his jacket under her head and keeping their gazes locked while he began lifting her skirt.
“Ethan…” She said his name with such significance, as if it held more weight than just a couple of syllables and a few letters.
“I’ll take care of you,” he said, holding her there, his face right above hers, her eyes holding him steady.
He moved his hand to lift the edge of her skirt, going higher along her thigh. His eyes never leaving hers.
The recipe for the evening needed a dollop of care, a bloody lot of attention, and flames that only burned for them.
“I’ll start by taking off the wrapper, peeling through the layers to get to the center. Then I’ll have a taste,” he said as he worked.
Except.
“There’s barely any wrapper,” he murmured. Then again, that’s what she’d said at the restaurant, wasn’t it?
His hand moved higher to her hip, his fingertips moving the scrap of fabric there. Pulling it away from her center.
He leaned forward, kissing the stuffing out of her while his hand grazed along the line of her waist.
“Emergency thong for the win,” she said, pulling her lips in awhatcha gonna doline.
“Sketch’s been eating my laundry,” she clarified.
“I don’t know what to say to that.” The truth was the only thing that came to mind.
She pulled his hand lower, to between her legs. “Then say nothing.”
Occasionally, he stumbled upon a fussy soufflé that refused to release from the edges. The trick was to change tactics.
He trailed a light movement to her core. She moaned against his lips and pulled her ankles up, letting her knees fall apart.
Did his mouth part? Salivate? His eyes grow wide? Yes, all of those things happened. He tested the softness of her, allowing the heat to stoke between them. Link them together.
His erection strained against the cloth at his fly.
“I am so hard for you,” he said as he touched her.
She gripped his wrist, moving it to the center of her and lifting only the slightest bit so his fingers found her opening.
“Please,” she said, warmth at the tip of his fingers. “Don’t you dare stop.”
That’s all he needed before he slipped a finger, then two, inside this woman who lifted her hips to welcome him into her heat. Allowed him to stoke the fire.
