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All the anger, frustration, and things we haven't said crash together at once. I pull him closer by his shirt, and his hands settle at my waist.

For one glorious second, neither of us is arguing.

Then he draws back.

“Still pissed at me?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Because I'm still pissed at you, sweetheart.”

I grab his shirt again.

“Then stop talking.”

His mouth crashes against mine.

Something scrapes against the kitchen floor as we stumble backward. My hip bumps the table, and Torch catches me before I lose my balance.

He breaks the kiss.

“You okay?”

I glare at him.

“Preston Chavez, if you ask me one more question...”

His mouth curves.

“There's my little wildfire.”

I pull him back to me.

He kisses me once more, then hooks his hands beneath my thighs.

Before I can come up with another insult, he lifts me onto the kitchen table.

I catch his shoulders, looking straight into those brown eyes.

“Still think you're in charge?” I challenge.

He steps between my knees, that infuriating grin firmly in place.

“Not a damn bit, sweetheart.”

He doesn't waste another second. His hands hook into the waistband of my panties and rip them down and away in one swift motion, tossing them onto the floor. I’m completely open to him, my pussy soaking wet and pulsing.

Torch steps back just enough to shove his shorts and briefs down. His cock springs free, thick, fully erect, and pulsing.

He steps back between my knees and grabs my hips, digging his fingers into my flesh to anchor me against the hard table.

He lines himself up, rubbing the broad head of his cock against my soaking wet folds for one agonizing second before he thrusts home.

I cry out as he buries himself inside me in one deep, powerful stroke, stretching me wide and hitting my cervix. I arch my back, fingers clawing at his shoulders, my breath hitching in a ragged sob.