"Harder," she breathes, and the word goes straight to the base of my spine.
I bite harder. Her hips buck against mine, grinding against the length of me through two layers of fabric, and the pressure makes me groan against her skin. My hands strip the tank top over her head, work the clasp of her bra, and both hit the kitchen floor.
The freckles scattered across her collarbone and the tops of her breasts catch the kitchen light. My hands are rougher this time, palms covering her breasts, fingers finding her nipples and rolling them between thumb and forefinger with a pressure that makes her gasp and arch against the counter.
"The kitchen counter," she says, half amusement, half breathless. "Very domestic of you."
"I'm a domestic man." My teeth close on the curve of her breast, not the peak but the soft flesh above it, hard enough to leave a mark, and the laugh she tries to hold fractures into a sound that is not a laugh and is better than one. Her nipples are flushed dark and tight under my fingers, and when I pinch harder she hisses through her teeth and her hips grind forward against mine with a desperation that tells me the day has been its own foreplay.
My hand slides down her stomach and into her shorts without preamble, and there is nothing underneath. My fingers slide through wet heat, and the slick, swollen evidence of exactly how much she wants this rips a sound from my throat that I don't recognize. She is soaked, her arousal coating my fingers before I've done anything more than touch her.
"You've been thinking about this all day," I tell her, and my voice has dropped into a register I don't use outside this context, low and rough and stripped of every civilized layer.
"Since you watched me across the treatment floor this morning." Her hips rock against my hand, pressing my fingers harder against her clit. "You're not as subtle as you think, Senior Chief."
"I'm not trying to be subtle." My fingers spread her open and stroke through her folds, the heel of my palm grinding against her clit while my fingertips trace her slick entrance without pushing inside. The indirect pressure makes her knees buckle and her grip on my shoulders goes white-knuckled. "I'm trying to get you to the bedroom before I take you on this counter."
"Counter's fine." Her voice breaks on the last word because my palm is still grinding and her hips are chasing the contact with a rhythm she's not controlling anymore.
"Bedroom." I pull my hand free and she makes a sound of protest that is instantly silenced when I grip the backs of her thighs and lift her. She wraps her arms around my neck, and her mouth finds mine, kissing me deep and filthy while I carry her down the hallway. Her hands pull at my shirt, my belt, anything she can reach, and I'm hard enough that every brush of her body against mine is a test of the control I'm barely holding.
Inside the bedroom, I set her down with less care than I should, and she lands on the mattress with her hair fanning across the pillow, her mouth swollen, her eyes dark with the focus of a woman who has stopped thinking about anything except what's about to happen.
I strip. Her eyes track down my body, and her teeth catch her lower lip when she sees how hard I am. The hunger on her face makes the muscles in my stomach clench.
"Come here," she says.
"Not yet." I kneel between her legs and hook my fingers into the waistband of her shorts. She lifts her hips, and I drag them down her legs and drop them on the floor.
The sight of her spread out on my bed, naked, flushed, wet enough that the slick shine on her inner thighs catches the dim light, lands in me with the force of an impact. She is mine. Every freckle, every scar, every inch of skin that flushes when I put my hands on her. The thought is not civilized and I am not interested in civilizing it.
I don't make her wait. The day has spent every ounce of patience I own, and what's left is a hunger I am not interested in moderating. My mouth covers her and my tongue pushes between her folds, tasting her with a directness that makes her whole body jolt.
The taste of her hits me, salt and heat and the intimate flavor I will never get enough of, and the groan that rumbles through my chest vibrates against her flesh. She cries out at the vibration, her hips lifting off the bed, and I pin them down with both hands and hold her still while my mouth works her with focused, relentless pressure.
This is not the slow exploration of learning what she likes. I know what she likes. My lips seal around her clit and I suck with a steady, rhythmic intensity, my tongue flicking against the underside of the swollen bud in counterpoint. Her fingers tangle in my hair and pull, not guiding but gripping, holding my mouth against her with a strength that says letting go is not something she's willing to do.
The sounds she's making are raw and high and stripped of every layer of composure she wears in the rehab center. My name comes out fractured, then dissolves into wordless sounds that are better than language.
I shift my grip on her hips and push her thighs wider apart with my shoulders, opening her completely, and the angle changes the contact. My tongue drags flat and heavy along the length of her, from entrance to clit, and I repeat the stroke ina slow, dragging rhythm that makes her back arch and her fists tighten in my hair until the pull sends pain straight to my cock.
She's close. The tremor in her thighs against my shoulders tells me. The pitch of her breathing climbing. The way her body has gone rigid with the effort of holding together while I take her apart.
I seal my mouth over her clit and suck hard while I push two fingers inside her, my fingers spreading instead of curling, stretching her around me while my mouth stays relentless. The combination breaks her.
The orgasm tears through her in a sustained wave, her inner walls clenching around my fingers in rhythmic pulses that grip and release and grip again. Her hips buck against my face and I ride the motion, my mouth holding pressure through every contraction until the last tremor runs through her and her grip on my hair loosens and her thighs fall open.
I climb up her body, and the salt of her arousal is still on my mouth when she pulls my face down to hers and kisses me with a ferocity that steals my breath. Her tongue pushes past my lips and chases the taste of herself, and the raw intimacy of it, her mouth consuming the evidence of what I just did to her, hardens my cock to the point of pain.
"Inside me." Her voice is wrecked and certain, stripped of banter, stripped of composure. Her hand wraps around my cock and the grip is firm and knowing and sends a bolt of heat through my spine. She guides me to her entrance and the first contact of my head against her wet, swollen flesh rips a groan from both of us.
"Now, Boone."
I push into her in one long, controlled stroke. The sensation of her body opening around me, hot and tight and so wet that every inch is frictionless, sends pleasure up my spine hard enough to white out my peripheral vision. She takes all of me,her hips tilting to pull me deeper, and the sound she makes when I bottom out is guttural and raw.
I hold still for one breath, then another. Buried to the hilt in a woman who built an evidentiary case while the rest of us were in a meeting, who breaks Falk's operation by asking the right questions, who looks at me across a treatment floor and makes my blood pressure do things that would not survive a medical review. The tight, wet grip of her around my cock is enough to break the discipline I've been running on all day.
I pull back and drive forward, and she cries out. The rhythm I set is controlled and deep and just this side of rough, the pace of a man who has been wanting this since 0800 and is finished with restraint. Her nails rake down my back and the sting of it feeds the edge I'm riding.
