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That made her smile in just the right way—amused and a little wicked. She raised her eyes back to mine, though she kept her hand on my bare stomach, tousling the hair there. “No way, Max,” she said, her voice teasing. “I know a bachelor pad when I see one. You don’t have any women here.”
When you put it that way, it was painfully obvious. “Maybe I go to hotels,” I said. “I’m a hotel guy.”
She shook her head, smiling now.
“I kick them out the next morning,” I tried. “A new one every day.”
“Nope.” She inched her hand down toward the waist of my boxers, and I made myself breathe.
“Okay,” I said. “I don’t do it very often.” Like, not at all in four years. “Unlike you, who gets laid every time she snaps her fingers, no doubt.”
She blinked at me, and her expression went serious. “I have sex,” she said, unaware she was giving me a twist in my gut, “but that doesn’t mean I like it.”
I was so surprised at this that I laughed. “You could have fooled me. My neighbors heard everything. They think I’m Zeus right now.”
“Yeah, well, you kind of are,” she said with that same serious expression. “Last night was different. It wasn’t…” She trailed off, and I watched her put her thoughts together. “It wasn’t a negotiation.”
I had no idea what that meant. I should probably know. I should probably be understanding here, say something wise. I had the feeling she was talking about something she didn’t normally talk about. But as usual, I didn’t have anything perfect to say, and I was quiet so long that she looked up at me with a worried frown. “What?” she said.
“I don’t get it,” I told her. “The negotiation thing. I mean, fuck me or don’t fuck me. It’s up to you.”
She blinked up at me, and slowly her features relaxed, a smile touching the corners of her mouth. Suddenly I was aware that she still had her hand on my stomach, and that awareness shot straight downward. She let her eyes drop down to my
shoulders, my arms, my chest, and her tongue briefly touched the edge of her upper lip, the sight making me start to get hard. “I see,” she said, her voice soft.
It was a game, but it wasn’t. She was flirting, but she wasn’t. Underneath it she was looking at me like she wanted to devour me, like she was very fucking turned on. And suddenly I wondered if she was wet—if I touched that bare, sexy pussy like I had last night, if my fingers would slide over it, slide into her slick and deep with no resistance.
And I knew she wanted me to.
I put my hands under the hem of her shirt—my shirt—and moved them up her body, cupping her breasts beneath the fabric. I ran my thumbs over her nipples slowly, taking my time. She had incredible breasts, big enough to fill my hands to overflowing, soft and warm and firm. She stood still as I touched them. Her breath stopped. Her pupils went dark. Her nipples went hard.
I looked at her, saw her watching me, my face. “You want more?” I asked her.
“Yes,” she breathed, her eyes never leaving me.
I stepped closer, brushed my mouth over hers. “You’re insatiable.”
“You should talk.” The hand on my stomach moved, tugged down my boxer shorts, and curled around my cock, which was hard as iron now. She stroked it, her soft skin working me all the way down to my balls, then back up again.
I made some kind of angry sound and pressed her back so she was against the counter again, like she’d been last night. But this time I kept her there, biting her neck gently as she stroked me again and again, as my body went wild. If we kept this up I was going to come, probably sooner than I wanted—I’d never had a woman’s touch that felt like hers. So I said, “Tell me what you want.”
“Make me come,” she breathed.
I gripped her hips and lifted her onto the counter, sucking the soft place beneath her jaw. “Open your legs and I’ll do it.”
“Fuck,” she said, one dirty little murmur, and then she opened her knees and hooked them around my hips as I braced myself on the counter. She was bare and wet, and I slid my cock over her, savoring it for a second before I moved inside.
She gripped my shoulders for balance, one of her hands grabbing the back of my neck. She was panting, and I could feel her hard nipples through the shirt. “I’ve never had anyone bare before you,” she confessed.
“Me neither.” Now that I had, I wondered how the hell I could ever go back. The feeling was addictive. She was addictive. I put the head of my cock inside her, letting it slip and slide, as I tasted her skin with the tip of my tongue. “You feel that?” I growled.
She gave me a moan that was both pleasure and frustration. “I feel everything,” she said. “Everything you do. Give me more, Max.”
I moved my hips and pushed further into her. She was tighter than last night, all heat and incredible friction. I braced myself against the counter, my muscles tense, and slid in all the way. Her fingers dug into my shoulders and she tilted her head away from me, giving me better access to her neck. “More,” she said.
But I moved slow. This was different from before, here on my kitchen counter, with the cloudy sunlight slanting into the room through my curtains and the coffee maker ticking on the counter behind me. I savored her this time, the smell of her skin—rubbed-off coconut lotion and sleepy, aroused woman—and the quiet sounds in her throat. I savored the feel of her around me, the slickness of her skin where it touched mine, the taut muscles I could feel in her legs gripping me, in her arms holding herself up. There was only one thing missing. “Take your shirt off,” I told her.
She paused for a second, the words registering in her brain. “What?”
