In the car, her heart-shaped lips pulling me into a world where nothing else exists.
Again, before I even started the engine.
At the fucking stoplight: my hand sliding up her skirt, over her thighs, beneath thin lace, two fingers inside her until a car horn from behind sliced through her moan and reminded me the light had turned green.
And now, inside the house, her back against the door.
I barely manage to set our pie slices on the entryway table before her mouth is on mine again, tugging me under.
“This is our first full night without those spoiled kittens,” I say, my mouth skimming over hers like the words alone should explain exactly what that means.
Her lips curve into a wicked little dare I feel everywhere. “And…?”
I press her harder to the door, hands sliding under her skirt, palms greedy for every bare, smooth inch of skin.
She tips her head back, lips parting, and I take her mouth like I’ve been holding my breath all night—hungrier still when she hooks a leg around me.
We should move. Head upstairs. Fall into bed.
But we won’t.
Not when her sleeveless top, bra, and skirt have come off. Not when my shirt and jeans hit the floor.
Dropping to my knees, I tug down her black, lace thong, then brace my hands on her thighs, nudging them wider, her pussy bare, beautiful, slick with heat.
My mouth finds her clit as if I’ve been ravenous for it, tongue teasing, then stroking in a rhythm that makes her breath catch every time.
Fingers thread through my hair, pulling when I go deeper.
Damn, she’s so perfect, and I suck her in, eating her out as if I’ll never get another chance, every moan she makes burning itself into my memory.
Weeks ago, she listed out what a fling meant to her: no real life, no strings, our summer bubble.
But right now, I can’t imagine leaving this bubble and stepping back into real life. I’m in so fucking deep.
Holding her steady with one arm, I don’t let her go until she’s shattering against my mouth, thighs clamping, body arching, my name falling from her lips.
“That’s it, Bubble Girl. Come for me.”
As she slumps against the wall, chest heaving, I rise and kiss her again, slow and full, so she can taste herself, taste the arousal that’s got me standing at full attention.
Fisting my cock, I guide her to the couch and pull her into my lap, her knees bracketing my hips.
With my hands on her bare ass, I sink into her in one long, unhurried thrust that knocks the air out of both of us.
“God, Knox…” she says, gripping my thighs, back arching, hips rocking.
She doesn’t know what that does to me, that moan, that wild look in her eyes, her beautiful tits bouncing as she rides my cock.
My fingers tighten at her hips, guiding her, but she sets the pace. Slow. Deep. Unhurried. Each time she sinks down, her gaze holds mine like she’s daring me to blink.
Fuuuck. I’m an addict.
I remember the first night she stayed here, curled on the couch with the kittens, hair falling over her face. Back then, I thought I just wanted her in my bed.
Now, I’m sure that’s not all I want.
Her breathing stutters as I massage her clit with my thumb, her body tightening around me, and I can’t hold back, thrusting up into her once, twice, until we’re both unraveling, clinging like the couch might drop out from under us.
