He yanked down her zipper and, half lifting her, peeled the jeans away. Giving her no time to recover, he closed his mouth over hers again, swallowing her instinctive protest. He stroked her, teasing and gentle. She was already hot, already wet, already balanced on the edge. He wanted her to ride that, hold that sensation until it overwhelmed and overcame.
He wanted to watch her as she did.
The air, so thick and sweet, made her feel drunk with every breath. The pleasure he brought her was so complete, so absolute, she seemed trapped in it, mired and steeped. He caught her nipple between his teeth, bringing her to an exquisite point just bordering on pain while he stroked that heat higher.
When she thought she couldn’t bear it, couldn’t contain it, everything went bright and free. She heard herself moan, the long, long throaty sound of it as her head dropped heavily on his shoulder.
She wanted to twine around him, curl inside him, but he angled her back, wrapped her trembling legs around his waist. And drove into her.
Fresh shock, fresh pleasure. Hard and fast and furious. A rising flood churning into the wild sweep of a tidal wave. He dragged her through it, drowned her in it, until that violent wave tossed her to the surface. She could only float there, wrecked, until he joined her.
Now, gradually, she felt his heart hammering against hers, and the rags of his breath tearing at her ear. She felt the smooth surface of the counter under her, the dazzle of the kitchen lights against her closed lids.
She needed a moment or two, just a moment or two to find her balance again, then she could—
He shocked her again when he scooped her off the counter, into his arms.
“You don’t have to—”
“Hush,” he said yet again, and carried her upstairs to bed.
* * *
She came down first in the morningand could only stop and stare. She’d left the lights on, a careless waste of energy. But she couldn’t seem to get too worked up about it. Clothes scattered the floor, hers and his.
She studied the counter with a kind of baffled wonder. She’d never understood the appeal for sex in odd or unusual places. What was the point when a bed, even a couch would be more comfortable and conducive? Though she did enjoy sex in the shower on occasion.
Obviously she’d been too narrow in her viewpoint, though she wondered how long it might take before she could perform basic kitchen duties with equanimity.
For now, she started the coffee, then gathered up all the clothes, folded them neatly. By the time Brooks came down—naked—she’d set the kitchen to rights and started breakfast.
“Seem to have left my clothes down here.” Obviously amused, he picked up the jeans she’d folded, put them on. “You didn’t have to get up this early, make breakfast.”
“I like getting up early, and don’t mind making breakfast. You have a difficult day ahead. You’ll feel better if you have a meal. It’s just an omelet and some toast.”
When she turned, he’d pulled on his shirt and was looking at her, just looking at her, with those clever, changeable eyes.
“I wish you wouldn’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“I…” She turned away to pour the coffee. “I don’t know.”
He came up behind her, wrapped his arms around herwaist loosely, pressed a kiss to the side of her neck. “Rounding third and headed for home,” he murmured.
“That’s a baseball term. We’re not playing baseball. I don’t know what that means.”
He turned her around, kissed her mouth lightly. “Yes, you do. It’s nothing to get panicked about.” He rubbed at the tension in her shoulders. “We’ll take it easy. What kind of omelets?”
“Three-cheese with some spinach and peppers.”
“Sounds great. I’ll get the toast.”
He moved so easily around her kitchen, as if he belonged there. Panic tickled up her throat again. “I’m not—” How did people put it? “I’m not built for this.”
“For what?”
“For any of this.”
