“You know this isn’t damage control,” he said quietly.
She kept her eyes on the dish in her hands. “I know.”
“Good.” He set the towel down, turning to face her fully. “Because I’d hate to think you made all this to manage my expectations.”
She turned too, water still dripping from her fingers into the sink.
“I made all this,” she said, “because I wanted you here.”
Something in him stuttered, subtle but there. “Say that again.”
“Don’t push it, Calloway.”
He stepped closer anyway, hands braced on either side of the sink, effectively caging her in without touching her.
“Tell me to go,” he said, eyes searching hers. “If you want me to, I’ll walk out that door, and we’ll go back to arguing about case law and pretending?—”
“I don’t,” she cut in. “I don’t want you to go.”
Something bright and stunned flashed across his face.
“Yeah?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
His voice dropped. “Then what do you want?”
She slid wet hands up his chest, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt, tugging him down.
“This,” she said, and kissed him.
The towel hit the floor. His hands found her waist, dragging her closer until she was pressed flush against him. He kissed her like he meant to make up for every second of the week he’d had to pretend he didn’t know exactly how she tasted.
Her back met the counter with a muffled thud. She didn’t care. She hooked her fingers in his belt, pulling him in, chasing the way his control slipped every time she did.
“Eleanor,” he murmured against her mouth, voice scraped raw. “Tell me to slow down.”
“No,” she said, voice already unsteady. “Faster.”
He laughed, a low, disbelieving sound that vibrated against her lips, then kissed her harder.
His hands slid beneath the hem of her camisole, fingers splaying against her bare skin. She shivered, arching into his touch. He traced his thumbs along the curve of her ribs, memorizing every inch he could reach, before his mouth left hers to find the vulnerable line of her throat.
He kissed a slow path along her neck, teeth scraping lightly to feel her gasp, one hand firm at the small of her back to keep her right where he wanted her.
“Reid—”
“Yeah,” he murmured against her skin. “I know.”
She slid her hands under his shirt in retaliation, palms gliding up over hard muscle, nails grazing lightly. He swore low and reverent, and closed his eyes for a second like he was trying to get a grip and failing on purpose.
Somehow they made it out of the kitchen—half-stumbling, half-laughing—his mouth on hers, her fingers already under the hem of his shirt again. The hallway blurred. Her bedroom door loomed ahead. Cream walls, soft blue accents, the pale gleam of the lofty white comforter folded at the foot of the bed.
Reid backed her through the doorway, one hand finding the light switch blindly, curled around the back of her neck as he kissed her. The room washed in soft lamplight.
He walked her backward slowly, deliberately, until the backs of her knees hit the edge of the bed.
Eleanor let out a shaky breath against his mouth.
