“Jax—”
“Me first.”
I lift her.
Hands under her thighs, I lift her clean off the floor. She wraps her legs around my hips on instinct, and I cross the kitchen with her in three steps — the counter is right there. The counter where the Cup is. The place I’ve put my coffee every morning for the past six years, and now I’m setting my girl down on the granite three feet from it at three AM in my kitchen.
The Cup is on her right.
She doesn’t look at it.
She looks at me.
Her hands are in my hair.
“You ready?” I say.
“For what.”
“My turn.”
I drop to my knees between hers.
She goes still on my counter, thighs at the edge, hands braced behind her on the granite. Hair around her shoulders. Chest flushed. Her underwear is the only thing between my mouth and her.
I pull her thong down. Slow. Watching her watch me. The only thing between my mouth and her, gone.
Her bare ass on the counter, knees parted.
I look up at her.
“Look at me.”
“I am.”
“Stay here with me.”
“I’m here, Jax.”
I slide my tongue up the inside of her thigh.
She gasps.
I kiss my way up. Slow. The crease at her hip. The skin just below her belly button. Each kiss somewhere different so she doesn’t know where the next one is coming. Her hand goes to the back of my head. Her breath catches.
“Jax—”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t tease.”
“I’m not teasing.”
“You are.”
“I’m just thanking you.”
“For what.”
