Her hands found my hair. Mine found her waist and pulled her in and she came without hesitation—all of her, pressing close like she was trying to erase every inch of distance at once.
I broke the kiss.
She chased it.
I pulled back just far enough that she couldn't reach and looked at her. Flushed. Breathing hard. Lips parted.
"Relax," I said. “I'm gonna take care of you.”
Her lips parted. Her brow furrowed. "Don't be calm right now?—"
"I'm not calm."
"You look calm."
I slid my hands to her hips and lifted her onto the counter in one movement. She gasped and grabbed my shoulders, suddenly eye level, and I stepped into the space between her knees.
Then I grabbed her wrist.
Pressed her hand to my hard cock.
She sucked in a harsh breath.
"I am not calm," I said, rocking into her hand. Her fingers clenched and my eyes closed for a split second. “I am anything but calm. I sat at that table wanting to be inside you all fuckin’ night.”
Her breath came out ragged. Her fingers pressed harder and I let her for one moment—just one—before I pulled her hand away.
She made a frustrated sound.
"Six months," I said.
"I know?—"
"You stopped texting."
"Sawyer—"
"I'm not looking for an apology." I pressed my mouth to her jaw, her throat, felt her head tip back. "I just want you to say it."
"Say what."
"That you thought about this."
A beat. Her fingers curled into my shoulders.
"I thought about it," she said. Quiet. Almost embarrassed.
"How often?"
"A lot."
"More specific."
"Constantly." The word came out tight, like she couldn’t keep it in. "I thought about it constantly. Every—" She stopped.
"Every what?"
Her eyes blazed.
