“Damn,” she says.
I can’t speak.
I lean my forehead to hers and breathe.
She wipes her own taste off my mouth with her thumb. Looks at me. Doesn’t say anything else. Just lets me find my voice.
“Still on the counter.”
“I can feel that, Jax.”
I smirk.
I get my jeans the rest of the way off.
I’m hard and her eyes go down to me and stay there and I don’t have it in me to be coy about what I want.
“Tell me,” she says.
“Tell you what.”
“What you want.”
“I want you.”
“Yeah?”
“On the counter.”
“Yeah.”
“Three feet from the Cup.”
She breathes a laugh into my mouth. “You’re really doing this.”
“Yeah.”
“Get over here, Mercer.”
I step closer between her knees.
She pulls me to her and I line up against her — wet, ready, both of us right at the edge — and I pause.
“You sure.”
“Jax.”
I push into her.
Slow.
No resistance. All the way, watching her face as I bottom out — her mouth opens and her eyes go wide — she stays with me the whole way in.
I bury my face in her neck for a second.
“Christ.”
“I know.”
