“This is stupid,” he mumbles.
Then he kisses me.
There is no slow build. We go from nothing to everything because we’ve been fighting this so long that giving in is now the only option. My fingers twist into his shirt and pull hard. His hands slide from my face into my hair. I’m kissing him back with everything I’ve locked away for years, all the bickering, all the nights I lay awake wanting exactly this. His teeth graze my lower lip and a sound leaves my throat I didn’t know I could make. My hands find the back of his neck and his arm wraps aroundmy waist so tight there’s no air between us, and our mouths are hungry and graceless.
My back hits the shelves behind me as Dorien pressed forward. The movement rattles everything—the metal, the jars of brushes, the dozens of plaster busts—and something heavy shatters against the tarp by my feet, sending a spray of white powder up my jeans.
He doesn’t look, doesn’t even flinch.
All he wants is my mouth, my skin, my body pressed so hard to his that I lose track of where I end and he begins. We are heat and motion, hands everywhere, our lips desperate. I’m not thinking about anything except the softness of his tongue against mine and the way he bites my bottom lip like he wants to keep a piece of me.
He lets go of my mouth just long enough to drag his hand up my side. I grab his wrist and bring it higher, refusing to be subtle. His palm cups my breast and he groans into a kiss, a sound so hot it makes my thighs tremble.
His thumb finds my nipple through the fabric, and I arch into it shamelessly. I want him to touch me harder, so I make him. He obeys, massaging, kneading, then loops his other arm around my waist and lifts me off the floor.
I wrap my legs around him. My sneakers are dangling and kicking the shelving unit as he turns, knocking more stuff to the ground, but he’s unstoppable.
He carries me to a table, scattering tools and small boxes. The tarp crumples, supplies roll everywhere, but all he cares about is pinning my hips to the plywood and kissing me so deep I forget my own name.
I get desperate. I fumble for his belt, and he stops me with a hard squeeze to my thigh.
“No,” he says, voice rough against my mouth. “Not yet.”
He undoes my jeans and yanks them down so my bare ass hits the cold table. He steps back for a second, just enough to look, really look, at me. I spread my legs for him, and he bites his lower lip, just gazing.
The way he stares is like he’s seeing a woman for the first time, like every inch of me is a study for a sculpture. He’s hazed, obsessed, hungry. It’s the most exposed I’ve ever felt because I’m wet, open, and on display. And he’s looking like he wants this to be the last sight he ever sees.
He kisses me again, messier and more urgent, then cups me between the legs and groans. His fingers are strong as he traces every part of me. He circles my clit, and I gasp, so he does it again, and again, changing the pressure, changing the angle, narrowing in on what makes me shake and moan the most.
He pulls back to watch my face.
“I like hearing that,” he says, thumb stroking exactly where I’m most sensitive. “I want more. Give me more.”
I can’t handle the intensity of those eyes, so I pull him forward, wrap my arms around his neck, and just hold on.
I moan into the curve of his shoulder. My cheek drags over his jaw and I want to bite it, but I’m too desperate to breathe. His hands are everywhere, sculpting every inch of me like I’m made of clay.
He pushes his fingers inside me.
I cry out, hips jerking up off the table. I cry out his name. Everything is heat, pressure, the stretch of his fingers filling me, and then he’s kissing me again but it’s different now, deeper and wilder, his tongue driving against mine while his hand fucks me.
God, he’s good at this. Of course he is. He always has to be the best at everything.
He keeps his mouth on mine, swallowing every moan, like he wants to eat up all my sounds. My hands fist in his hair and I try to pull him closer but he’s already everywhere.
He breaks the kiss just as I’m about to climax. His forehead presses to mine, eyes locked on my face, and he watches every twitch and gasp like he’s memorizing it for later.
“Say it again,” he says, voice rumbling so deep I feel it in my bones.
“Dorien.” It’s a whimper, and he loves it.
His fingers speed up, curling just right, and I shatter. He wants to see it, so I let him. I grip his shoulders and cry out his name again and again, like it’s the only word I remember. I come so hard my thighs clamp around his wrist and my whole body trembles. He keeps working me through it, massaging deep inside, then gentler, sliding his palm over my pussy and down my legs as I shake, gasp, and come down slowly.
He kisses my cheek, my shoulder, then the curve of my breast through my shirt. He licks a line over the fabric and nips at my nipple. I moan again, weaker this time, and he just grins against me, smug as hell.
He straightens and looks at his hand. His fingers are glistening from being inside me, and he stares like he can’t believe it’s real. Then he brings them to his mouth and licks them clean.
I swear I almost come again just from watching.
