“We're doing this now?" I managed. "I've been driving for three hours."
"Mm." His mouth moved down my throat. "You can sleep after."
"That's very generous of you."
"I thought so." His hands found the hem of my shirt and slid underneath, warm against my waist, and I arched into him and forgot what I'd been about to say.
"I'm serious," I said. "I'm exhausted."
"You're not exhausted." He pulled back just far enough to look at me, dark-eyed, unhurried. "You drove two and a halfhours in the dark to get here. That's not exhaustion. That's adrenaline."
"That's the same thing."
"It really isn't." His thumbs moved in slow circles against my hip bones and my brain went sideways. "Tell me to stop and I'll make you eggs."
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
“Right…” he said. “That's what I thought.”
He smiled—and then his mouth was back on my throat and I stopped having opinions about anything.
"I missed you," I said into his hair.
He pulled back and looked at me.
"I know," he said. "I missed you too."
Then he picked me up.
Just—hands at my waist, lifted me onto the counter in one move, stepped into the space between my knees the way he always did, eye level now, close. I grabbed his shoulders.
"Hi," I said.
"Hi." His hands slid up my thighs, slow and deliberate, pushing the fabric of my jeans. "You going to behave?"
"Absolutely not."
"Didn't think so." He leaned in, mouth at my ear. "That's fine. I've got time."
"You have eggs to make."
He stopped in his tracks.
“You wanna stop or not?”
I bit my lip.
“Keep going,” I breathed. He got my shirt over my head and I reached for his and he caught my wrists.
"Not yet," he said.
I stared at him. "You're joking."
"Do I look like I'm joking?"
He looked devastating. That was the problem. Dark sweater, dark eyes, the medal swinging forward when he'd leaned in, and the absolutely insufferable patience of a man who knew exactly what he was doing and had no intention of being rushed by me.
