Two.
My hands catch her hips, no hesitation in them, and her words cut off mid-syllable as I back her against the bench hard enough to make her gasp, the old timber solid behind her, then hoist her up.
“Anchor…” My name comes out of her, breathless and surprised, and it cuts through me like a live wire, straight down my spine, lighting everything up on the way.
I don’t give her the chance to say anything else.
I take her mouth like I own it.
Because I do.
Millie does the same to me, and we both know it, have known it for a long time, and I am finished pretending otherwise in empty rooms. She makes a startled sound against my mouth that turns fast, that turns hungry, her hands fisting in my shirt and yanking me forward like she’s been waiting to do it, like the interruption was the thing she actually wanted,notthe fermentation program.
Her legs come up and lock around my hips, and she pulls me in against her with a grip that tells meeverythingabout how not-reluctant she is.
Good.
I break just enough to breathe, my forehead against hers, both of us already running hot.
“You talk too fast when you’re happy,” I say.
She laughs, wrecked and breathless. “You just manhandled me into a pantry.”
“Yeah.” I pull back just enough to look at her properly, flushed, bright-eyed, completely undone, and something low in my gut tightens hard. “I’m going to do a hell of a lot more than that.”
Her eyes darken. She grabs my face and kisses me first this time. There is nothing soft about it, and I groan against her mouth because this woman has always known exactly what she wants and has never once been shy about taking it.
I grip the backs of her thighs and haul her closer, fully flush against me, and she makes a sound that belongs only in this room, her arms locked around my neck, her fingers tugging inmy hair just enough to completelywreckwhat’s left of my self-control.
I push my hands under her shirt.
She arches into it.
“Yeah?” I say against her jaw.
“Don’t ask me twice,” she says.
Her shirt goes over her head. My cut is placed on the counter, and my shirt is thrown. Her hands find my chest before the fabric hits the floor, sliding over my shoulders and down my arms, like she’s decided she’s going to take her time. I let her… for exactly as long as my patience lasts.
Which turns out to be not very long at all.
I lean in, my mouth finding the side of her throat, that spot below her jaw that makes her breath catch every single time, and I stay there, then working my way down the line of her neck while my hands find the clasp of her bra and deal with it efficiently. She shivers when it goes, even though the room is warm, even though my hands are already there, covering her, palms curved around her with a possessiveness I’m not interested in apologizing for.
I reach into my jeans, pull out my wallet, flip it open, and slide a condom free, tearing the packet open with my teeth. Undoing my jeans and pulling my cock out, I roll it on one hand, my mouth returning to her collarbone like I never left, and she lets out a low, amused laugh. “Of course, you keep one in there.”
“Property of a prepared man,” I say against her skin.
“That is not the saying.”
“It is now.”
Her jeans and panties come down next. Mine don’t. No time, no room, no patience left for it, and honestly, the urgency of that is something we are both fine with. She hooks her leg around the back of my thigh, tilts her hips forward, and I thrust into her slow, sure, and absolutely deliberate, watching her face everysecond of the way because her face is the thing I willneverget enough of.
Her head drops back, and her mouth falls open. “Jesus Anchor.” Her voice is low, wrecked. The one that hits like a fist, right in the center of my chest, every single time she uses it.
I grip her hips harder, and her sharp inhale bounces off the walls. Then I set a pace that isn’t gentle and isn’t rushed, like I know exactly what I’m doing and I’m going to do it right.
Her nails find my shoulder and dig in. I take that as encouragement and roll my hips. She makes a sound she tries to muffle, but spectacularly fails. The little pantry holds it like a secret, and I am immensely satisfied with myself.
