Page 37

“It’s the middle of the morning.”

“I know what time it is, Rowan.”

I slide my hands down his stomach and over the front of his pants, and he’s already hard. Thick and heavy under my palm. He groans and drops his head, and his flour-covered hands grip the edge of the counter.

“That’s the third time this week,” he says.

“Are you complaining?”

He turns around so fast I gasp. Grabs me by the waist, lifts me up, and sets me right down on the counter, next to the bread. Flour goes everywhere. Then he steps between my thighs and kisses me, hard, and I can taste the honey from my pickle on his tongue.

“I’m not complaining,” he growls into my mouth.

He shoves my dress up. Puts his big floury hand right between my legs and finds me soaking wet, and he makes this deep, rough sound in his chest that I feel in my clit. Two fingers slide right inside me, no warning, and I moan so loud I scare myself.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re dripping.”

“I know. I know, it’s been like this all week, I don’t know what’s wrong with me…”

He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me with this strange, soft, hungry look and curls his fingers.

I grab his shirt and pull. “Rowan. I need you inside me. Now.”

He opens his pants with one hand. I watch his cock spring free, dark and thick and already shiny at the tip, and I spread my legs wider on the counter without even thinking.

He drags the head of it through me first. Slow. Up through my slick and over my clit, and back down. The ridges of his grain drag across every swollen, sensitive inch of me, and I’m so worked up it almost hurts. I’m shaking. I’m grabbing at his arms.

Then he presses the tip against my entrance and pushes in.

Oh. Oh, God.

The stretch hits me all at once, hot and full. Every ridge sliding in one at a time, pressing against my walls. I’m so wet he slides in deep, deeper than I thought he could from this angle, and I can feel him all the way up in my belly. I wrap my legs around him and dig my heels into his ass and hold on.

“Look at me,” he says.

So I do. And he starts to move. Slow and deep, watching my face the whole time, his hand spread across my lower belly, pressing down just a little. Every time he pushes in, I can feel him under his own palm.

I don’t know why that makes me so crazy. It just does.

“Harder,” I beg.

“No.”

“Rowan…”

“Like this.” He drags out, slow, and pushes back in, so deep I see white. “Just like this.”

And I don’t argue. I can’t. Because it’s so good. It builds slow and heavy in my belly until I’m clenching around him, and then I’m coming, crying out his name with my face in his neck and my thighs shaking around his hips. He groans and pushes his knot into me and comes with me, his hand still pressed flat to my belly, holding on.

We stay like that. Tied together on the kitchen counter. Flour in my hair. The bread dough is probably ruined.

I don’t care about the bread.

He’s holding my face against his chest with one hand, and the other one hasn’t moved off my belly. His heart’s pounding under my ear.

“Rowan,” I mumble. “What’s going on with you?”

He’s quiet for too long.