The spoon clatters behind me, forgotten.
I lean in, brushing my lips against hers and tasting the sauce from her mouth. I bite her lip, and her moan vibrates against mine as I pull her closer until she’s flush against me. She wraps her legs around my waist as I lift her off the island and settle into a chair with her straddling me.
My fingers thread into her hair, tilting her head back. I kiss down her neck, sliding my hand under her shirt. Her skin pebbles underneath my touch. Her cardigan slips to the floor.
“Tell me to stop,” I whisper against her ear.
“Mmm?”
I chuckle. She’s half gone already. I love being able to make her melt this way. Her glazed eyes meet mine.
“Tell. Me. To. Stop.”
“No.”
I groan and kiss her again, cupping her face as I devour her. She smooths her hands over me, pulling herself closer to my length.
When she whispers, “Touch me, Eighty-Seven.” I nearly lose it.
“Fuck, baby. You don’t ever have to beg for that.”
My hands find the clasp of her bra.
And then the doorbell rings.
My hands still and I freeze.
Her eyes widen, her breath hitching like she’s just remembered a forgotten moment.
“No, you did not.”
“I-I invited them to dinner.”
I stare at her. “Bookworm, tell me you’re joking?”
She winces. “I didn’t think they’dactuallycome.”
The bell rings again. And again. My assumption is that Oliver is being impatient.
I drop my head to her neck and slide my hand out from under her shirt.
“Hellllooooooooo,” Oliver’s voice slips underneath the front door.
Erin giggles and slides off my lap. Her eyes drop to my crotch, then dart away, her cheeks flaming.
“Sorry about…that,” she murmurs, grabbing her cardigan. “Do you want to, uh, take care of that privately while I let them in?”
I stare at her, half wanting to laugh but caught in disbelief.
This. Girl.
Throughout dinner,I replay our kiss on a loop, including every whimper and shiver. It fires straight through my bloodstream. I’m desperate to hear more of those sweet moans.
If the guys hadn’t turned up, I know if I would have slipped my hand between her legs, her panties would have been ruined.
“Blankets or no blankets?” I say, turning around to face her when the bathroom door opens.
My mouth goes dry. My T-shirt clings to her like it belongs there. The cotton stops mid-thigh, showing off her bare legs. My thoughts scatter.
