I run my hand down her spine, slow, all the way to the swell of her ass. Squeeze gently.
"You ready, sweet girl? Bend over for me."
She bends forward without me asking, lays her forearms flat on the counter, presses her cheek against the cool marble. I can see flour on the back of her thigh, where she must have brushed against the counter earlier. The picture wrecks me. Bare ass, my baby in her belly, flour on her cheek, eggs murdered on the floor.
"Christ, May."
"What?"
"You're the prettiest thing I've ever seen."
I undo my belt one-handed, the other still on her hip, keeping her in place against me. My slacks hit the kitchen floor with a thud. The olive oil is right there on the counter, glinting at me like it's been waiting for this moment, and yeah, the kitchen is a war zone, but why not. I pour a generous drizzle into my palm and slick myself up, the cold of it against my heat making me hiss through my teeth.
"Decker."
"What."
"That's expensive olive oil."
"Worth every penny."
I position myself against her, one hand spreading her gently, the other holding her hip steady.
"Breathe, baby."
"Okay."
"Push back when you're ready."
She does it slow, easing back against me, and the heat of her, the impossibly tight grip, has my vision tunneling before I'm even an inch in. My forehead drops to her shoulder blade. I have to grit my teeth to keep from losing it right there.
"Holy hell, Deck."
"I know, sweet girl. I know."
"Is it... Is it always going to feel like this?"
"Like what?"
"Like I might split open in the best possible way."
Jesus Christ. The shit she comes up with. I bury a laugh against her neck, because I'm afraid if I make any noise that isn't laughter I'm going to come like a teenager.
I move in deeper, a fraction at a time, sweat dripping off my temple onto the marble next to her cheek. She's gripping the edge of the counter so hard her knuckles have gone white, and I keep one palm flat between her shoulder blades, the other tracing slow circles low on her hip, like I'm trying to gentle a horse that's about to bolt.
"That's it, sweet girl. That's my girl. Almost. Almost."
When I'm fully seated, I hold still, both of us breathing like we just ran a flight of stairs. Her body's a furnace around me. Every pulse of her grips me tighter, and I'm afraid if I move I'll lose it, but I'm also afraid that if I don't move I'll lose it, so I'm just stuck there praying.
"You okay?" I manage.
"This is — wow. Is this what it's like?"
"It's like whatever we make it, baby."
"I like it."
"Yeah?"
