Undone, I laugh, groaning at the kitchen ceiling. “You better make it up to me.”
“Damn straight.” He nips gently at the inside of my thigh and pulls back, one of my legs still draped over his arm, to meet my eyes. He’s looking for doubt, for regret.
But there is none.
I press myself up on my elbows and smile. “More, please,” I say like I’m asking for another helping of dessert. Because that’s exactly what this is. Delicious, sweet and endlessly enjoyable.
I’m greedy for him.
Adam’s apple bobbing, he runs his hands up my thighs. Then, clutching my waist, he pulls me off the counter, into him.
I surge upward on tiptoes, fusing my lips to his.
We’re fumbling and frantic. My shirt’s off, then his jeans. Hank turns me, bends me over the counter, his big body curled possessively around me. My blood thrums as his hot, thick cock presses against my legs.
He plants a knee between my thighs, parting them. As he sinks into me, a strangled kind of sound erupts from his mouth.
Hank Blue whimpering.
Now I’ve heard everything.
“Christ, sugar.” He snakes one big hand around me and cups my breast. Calloused fingertips pinching my nipple.
I nearly come undone at the sensation.
“Feel good, Bell? Just like that, right?” He plumps my breast in his palm, a rough grip I’ve always adored.
I gasp, one tiny mewl shamelessly slipping from my lips.
“That’s right.” A grunt, a thrust. “I remember what my girl likes. What you fucking need.”
“Yes, yes,” I whisper, lost in the healing sensation of him. Lost in us.
He drives deeper, one hand cupping the back of my neck gently. We moan together and thrust faster. He drops his mouth to my temple and whispers my name—Bellamy, Bluebell—as he moves in and out of my body.
I arch, head falling back against his sculpted chest. He cradles me to him, adjusting his position, sliding a hand over my belly. My body ignites into sparks.
Wanting more, I twist in his arms, kiss his scruffy cheek, the hard angle of his jaw. He locks me to him, his hand drifting to where we’re joined, stroking over my clit. Smooth strokes, then rough. A rhythm my body’s ravenous for.
“Hank,” I gasp. The telltale vibration starts in my core. It travels the length of me as I rock my hips, chasing that over-the-edge feeling.
Our breaths echo in the kitchen. He watches me, never once breaking eye contact.
“Come.” He rotates his finger and thrusts his hips. “Now.”
Electricity tears through my body. Hank and I come together, shockwaves rippling between us. I catch a glimpse of his face, those deep wells of sapphire, as he shudders his release. My heart swells. He’s so beautiful.
“So pretty,” he husks against the shell of my ear. “So damn pretty when you come.”
Gasping, I sag against the kitchen counter, hands splayed to steady myself.
With a groan, he drapes himself over me, languorously kissing up my spine, the curve of my shoulder, the shell of my ear. “Fuck,” he breathes. The deep rumble of his voice, his heartbeat pound into me. “Goddamn, Bellamy. I missed this.”
I missed it too.
I straighten, keeping that thought to myself, and shift in his arms to face him. But he keeps me trapped against his warm and heavy body.
With a sigh, I search his face. “Hank, this can’t—”
