She stood up. He straightened off the counter. The kitchen was small and the distance between them was less than she'd realized, close enough that she could smell him now, salt and wood and the particular warmth that came off his skin when he'd been working. The pull in her belly tightened into something undeniable and she didn't know why this man, why now, why any of it, but her body had decided something her mind hadn't caught up to and she was tired of pretending otherwise.
"I don't do this."
"I know."
"You don't know anything about me."
"I know enough."
She grabbed the front of his jacket suddenly and pulled him down and put her mouth on his hard, and the sound he made against her lips was low and rough going through her like current. His hands came up to her waist and tightened, pulling her into him, and the contact of his body against hers sent heat flaring through every nerve she had. He kissed her back hard, one hand sliding up her spine to grip the back of her neck, angling her head the way he wanted it, and she let him because the way he wanted it was exactly right.
The counter hit her lower back. He pressed her into it, his hips against hers, and she could feel him hard against her stomach through the wet denim and the rush of want that went through her made her gasp against his mouth. He pulled back just far enough to look at her, gray eyes dark, chest moving fast.
"Tell me to stop," he said.
"No."
He lifted her onto the counter. Her legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, pulling him closer, and his mouth found her neck, her jaw, the spot just below her ear that made her handsfist in his hair. She yanked his jacket off his shoulders and he let it drop and she pulled his shirt up and over his head and put her hands on his chest feeling the heat of him, the solid muscle and scarred skin and the rapid beat of his heart under her palm.
He pulled her shirt off in one motion, then her bra, and when his hands closed over her breasts she arched into him with a sound she didn't recognize as her own. His thumbs dragged over her nipples and she bit her lip hard enough to taste copper. He watched her face while he did it, those storm-gray eyes tracking every reaction, and the focused intensity of his attention was almost as devastating as his hands.
"Rafe." His name came out broken.
"I know." He kissed her again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding against hers while his hands worked her jeans open. She lifted her hips and he pulled them down, underwear with them, and then she was bare on her own kitchen counter with his hands on her thighs and the rain on the roof and the fire in the stove and nothing between them but the sound of their breathing.
He dropped to his knees.
She started to say something, his name, a protest, a please, but his mouth found her and whatever she'd been about to say dissolved into a moan that she would have been embarrassed about if she'd had any capacity left for embarrassment. His tongue moved against her with purpose, slow firm strokes that found exactly where she needed him and stayed there. She braced her hands on the counter edge and let her head fall back. She gave herself over to it because fighting it was no longer an option she was willing to consider.
He was good at this. Methodical and relentless and paying attention to every shift of her hips, every hitch in her breathing, adjusting pressure and rhythm the way she imagined he adjusted to current and wind, reading the response andfollowing it. When he slid two fingers inside her she cried out and felt the wind spike outside, a gust rattling the shutters they'd just secured, and for once she didn't care.
He brought her close and then eased back and she reached down and grabbed his hair.
He gave her what she wanted, his mouth and his fingers working together with a rhythm that tightened everything in her body to a single bright point, and when she came it hit her in a wave that started low and crested hard and she heard herself say his name in a voice she barely recognized.
He stood up while she was still shaking. She reached for his belt, got it open, shoved his jeans down far enough, and wrapped her hand around him. He was thick and hot in her grip and the groan that came out of him was raw enough to make her clench. She stroked him once, twice, and he caught her wrist.
"Not like that," he said. "Not the first time."
He pulled her to the edge of the counter and she guided him and when he pushed into her she stopped breathing. He filled her completely, the stretch of it almost too much, and he held still when he bottomed out, his forehead pressed against hers, both of them breathing ragged in the small space between their mouths.
"Move," she whispered.
He did. Long strokes that rocked her against the counter, his hands gripping her hips, pulling her into each thrust. She wrapped her legs tighter around him and matched his rhythm. The friction was exquisite, every movement hitting her in exactly the right place. The counter was the wrong height and the angle was imperfect and she didn't care because the imperfection of it was part of what made it real, not choreographed, not practiced, just two bodies figuring each other out in a dark kitchen while the world fell apart outside.
He picked up the pace and she met him. Her nails raked down his back and he hissed through his teeth and drove into her harder and the counter creaked beneath them. She felt the second orgasm building, deeper than the first, slower, pulling from a place that had everything to do with the way he was watching her, gray eyes fixed on her face like she was the only thing in the room that mattered.
"Isla." His voice was wrecked. Low, rough, her name pulled out of him like it cost something.
She put her hand on his jaw and held his gaze. "Don't stop."
He didn't. He shifted his grip, one arm bracing the counter behind her, the other hand sliding between them to press against her clit, and the combined pressure of him inside her and his thumb circling her sent her over the edge so hard her vision whited out. She clenched around him and felt him follow, his hips slamming into hers with a final, brutal thrust, a groan tearing out of his chest that vibrated through her whole body.
They stayed there. Him buried in her, her legs locked around his waist, both of them breathing hard with their foreheads pressed together. The rain had thinned to a steady pour. The fire ticked in the stove. The candle on the table had burned down a quarter inch since she'd lit it and the wax pooled in the dish with a faint smell of honey.
She felt his heartbeat where their chests pressed together, fast and hard, slowing by degrees. He was still inside her and she didn't want him to move.
She'd slept with men before. Not often, not carelessly, but she knew what this was supposed to feel like afterward, the familiar pull toward distance, the instinct to rebuild the walls before the other person noticed they'd come down. She waited for it but it didn't come.
