A small one.
Rough at the edges.
It goes straight through me.
I kiss her neck then, and she tips her head back against the wall with a kind of furious surrender that nearly finishes me on the spot. Her hands fist in my shirt. Mine move to her hips, holding her exactly where I want her, close enough to feel the heat of her, not close enough to give either of us what we’re already silently asking for.
Her thigh presses between mine, deliberate, and I tighten my grip on her hips to still her. Not yet. Not until I'm ready. Not until I've mapped every inch of this moment the way I want to map every inch of her.
"Pippa," I say again, just because I can. Just because of the way her breath stutters when I do.
"Stop talking," she says, but there's no command in it. No station authority. Just raw need wearing the clothes of an order.
My hands find the hem of her jumper first.
She lifts her arms, and I draw the jumper up and over her head, careful not to catch her hair. For a second, her blouse rides up with it, showing a strip of warm skin above her waistband before the fabric falls back into place.
My fingers find the first button.
I take my time.
The plastic disc slips through its hole with a soft click, and I watch her throat work as she swallows.
"Patience," I murmur against the curve of her neck.
She responds by gripping my shirt tighter, knuckles pressing into my chest. I move to the second button, then the third, each deliberate motion revealing another inch of her. The fabric parts like a curtain, and the lamplight catches the defined lines of her stomach—taut muscle beneath soft skin, the result of countless hours hauling equipment and climbing ladders while the rest of us watched from the ground.
"You're staring." Her voice comes out rougher than before.
"I'm appreciating." I slide the shirt off her shoulders, letting it fall behind her. She stands before me in just her practical black bra and I trace my thumb along the strap curving over her collarbone. "There's a difference."
Her chest rises and falls with each breath, the swell of her breasts straining against the cups. I want to tear it off. Instead, I lean in and press my lips to the hollow of her throat, tasting salt and warmth.
"AJ." My name leaves her mouth like a warning and a plea tangled together.
"Mmm?" I work my way along her collarbone, planting slow kisses across the ridge of bone. My hands settle at her waist, thumbs tracing the defined lines of her obliques. She's solid under my palms—powerful in a way that makes my cock ache against my trousers.
"If you don't—"
"Don't what?" I nip at the join of her neck and shoulder, and she shudders. "Don't take my time? Don't make you feel every single thing I'm doing to you?"
Her fingers abandon my shirt and rake through my hair, tugging hard enough to sting. I lift my head and meet hereyes. Those deep blue irises nearly black now, the pupils blown wide.
"You talk too much." But there's no real command in it. Her breath hitches on the last word.
I smile, and I know she can read the intent in it. "I've barely started."
My hands slide down to her hips, gripping the firm muscle there. In one fluid motion, I lift her. She wraps her legs around my waist on instinct, her thighs squeezing tight, her arms looping over my shoulders.
"Better," I say against her lips.
She kisses me hard, desperate, her tongue pushing into my mouth. I let her have it for a moment, let her pour all that frustrated want into the slide of her lips and the scrape of her teeth. Then I pull back, and she chases my mouth.
"Ah-ah." I tighten my grip on her hips, holding her still. "My pace, remember?"
"Fuck your pace." She rocks against me, grinding herself along the rigid length straining in my trousers. The friction sends a bolt of heat through my gut.
"Keep doing that and this ends before it starts." The words come out rougher than I intend, and her smile turns sharp, knowing. She did that on purpose.
