She shifts against me, an involuntary roll of her hips, and the breath she releases is ragged.
I start to ask, “Can I—”
But she already knows the question, answering by reaching behind her back and unclasping her bra. She pulls it free and drops it on the counter.
Her bare skin meets my surface, and the contact doubles in intensity. Her warmth andmine mingle without barriers.
I feel her heartbeat so clearly now that it pulses through me like a second rhythm alongside my own.
My hands shape to her breasts, cupping them from below as I shift my temperature, cooling slightly at the edges of my palms while warming at the center. The contrast makes her arch into me, a sharp, reflexive movement that presses her deeper into my substance.
I hold her there, supporting the weight of her, thumbs circling where her nipples are drawn tight. I thin my surface until every ridge and texture of her body registers with impossible clarity.
“Oz—”
My mouth finds her throat again, then lower, tracing the line of her collarbone, the hollow between.
Her hands grip my shoulders, fingers pushing past the surface and into me, anchoring herself. I feel her fingernails,her knuckles, the tendons flexing in her forearms as she holds on.
She’s half inside me and half outside me, and the boundary between us is becoming difficult to track.
She reaches down and unfastens her jeans.
Pushes them off her hips with one hand, an awkward, one-legged shuffle that knocks the empty pot off the counter. It clatters to the floor and neither of us reacts.
She kicks the jeans free and stands against me in plain cotton underwear, oil-slicked and flushed and breathing hard.
“I want you inside me,” she says.
Clear. Direct. Looking right at the space where my eyes gather.
I slide down her body.
My form reshapes as I move, maintaining contact along her entire front, a continuous surface of warmth that tracks her skin from throat to stomach.
I hook into the waistband of her underwear and ease it down, and she steps out of it and is bare against me.
I lift her.
She weighs almost nothing to me, and her legs wrap around my waist as I hold her, my hands spread wide across her back and thighs.
I carry her two steps to the wide counter against the far wall, the one she uses for labeling, and set her on the edge. The parchment crinkles under her.
She leans back on her palms and watches me, chest rising and falling, her pussy flushed and glistening, and the trust in her expression is something I want to protect with everything I have.
I ease between her thighs.
My form narrows and concentrates there, building density and warmth. I let the tip of myself press against her slick entrance with barely any pressure at all, simply a promise of what’s coming.
Her hips shift toward me. Impatient.
I press into her in increments.
My substance adapts to her internal shape, expanding where she opens,thinning where she tightens, maintaining a warmth that builds in precise response to her body’s feedback.
I feel her muscles yield and grip and yield again, and every micro-adjustment of her body tells me something.
Where pressure makes her gasp. Where heat makes her soften. Where a slight pulse against her clit, rhythmic and deep, makes her fingers clench against the counter.
