I brush another kiss over his mouth.
“And,” I add, because I have apparently decided subtlety is for cowards, “for the record, while you were out running and then showering, I had a very… thorough cleaning session.”
His eyes darken.
“A thorough cleaning session,” he repeats.
I nod.
“Very thorough. Extremely committed to hygiene.”
His fingers tighten against my waist.
“Philip.”
“What? I’m sharing useful information.”
His stare drops to my mouth.
Then lower.
Then back up.
The look sends a pulse of heat straight through me.
Excellent.
The Wednesday cloud cracks a little more.
I smile, because if I don’t I may combust.
Mark closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them again, there is significantly less sea-gazing melancholy and significantly more intent.
“You are,” he says quietly, “a serious problem.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
Then he kisses me again.
Hard.
Not careful this time.
The kind of kiss that knocks the breath out of me and replaces it with something hotter.
I make a sound against his mouth that I would deny in court.
His hand slides from my back to my arse, hauling me closer, and suddenly I am very aware of the edge of the counter pressing into my bum and the fact that this man can turn from thoughtful to devastating in under ten seconds.
When he pulls back, his mouth brushes the corner of mine.
“That,” he says, voice rougher now, “is a deeply unfair thing to tell me when I’m trying to behave like a functional adult.”
I blink at him.
“Were you trying?”
“Barely.”
