Then with a grin that said oh-sweetheart-I've-got-this he kissed her over the fabric of her panties, looping his finger there to pull them aside and press his lips exactly where she craved him.
A low hum started in her throat—the same sound she'd made with the bread.
He chuckled.
Then he righted her underwear and kissed his way back up her body. Her hands played with his hair as he skillfully popped the clasp of her bra and flicked it—yes, flicked it—onto the nearest lamp like some triumphant lingerie flag.
"Seriously?" she said, breathless and half-laughing, "You're undressing me like you've been waiting for this moment your whole life."
He grinned, eyes wicked and dark as sin. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
This wasn't some frenzied groping behind a bar; this was deliberate and she practically sizzled everywhere he touched.
She aimed for a joke—something sassy about HR policies and CEOs of startups—but when her mouth moved, all that'd come out was a strangled little gasp that sounded desperately wanton.
"You're gorgeous," he muttered, words half-mumbled against her skin. "Not even fair, Piper."
"Oh, you noticed?" She managed a laugh, then groaned as he kissed her again.
Her hips jolted, a needy little whimper slipping out.
"Get inside me," she practically begged. "Now, Zach, please."
So much for keeping it classy.
But even her pride had run for cover with the underwear he removed so deftly.
He didn't even smirk, which would have been less mortifying than the deep, guttural groan that rumbled out of him, breath rough as sandpaper against her ear.
"Fuck, you're—Piper, you're so ready for me."
"Don't sound so surprised, Charming. This is kind of your fault."
His lips curved up against hers, and he said, "Okay, Cinderella, let's see what else I can take credit for," before lowering his head to her breast, tongue teasing her nipple until she arched back, her own hands knotted in his hair.
"Oh my God—right there—" she gasped as he sucked, gentle at first and then with more hunger. She tried to be witty; what came out was an embarrassing, "You're really good at that."
He grinned at her, all cocky and pleased.
How was he still totally clothed, and she was nearly one orgasm in?
"Don't get cocky—oh." Her words had dissolved as the two fingers inside her curled just so and her whole body went taut. She clamped a hand over her mouth and he pried it away gently, kissing her palm.
"Don't," he whispered. "I want to hear you."
Then he worked her patiently, expertly, as she tried to keep up some shred of dignity and failed spectacularly. Her thighs started to shake, hips stuttering against his hand.
She gritted out, "If you don't get inside me in the next two seconds, I swear?—"
He laughed, deep and low, fished a condom from his wallet, set it on the table, and pulled his clothes off. Tearing the foil, he rolled the condom on with one hand, braced the other on the back of the sofa, and studied her face as though waiting for permission.
"Yes," she breathed, and he slid in—slow at first, stretching, filling—until her gasp broke on his name.
He rocked his hips, starting a slow rhythm that turned her bones to jelly. She dragged her nails down his back, biting his shoulder when he hit that perfect spot inside that made stars explode behind her eyes.
His voice had gone rough when he said, "Do the nail thing again."
She did as he asked because she totally could take direction. In return, he gave exactly what she needed. Hard, deep strokes, rough in all the right ways.
