"Pretending." She wraps both hands around the mug but doesn't drink. Steam curls between us. "You kiss me behind the shed and then we spend three days talking about roof shingles."
"You asked for space."
"No. I said this can't happen." She looks up at me over the rim. "That's not the same thing."
Something cracks open in my chest. The part of me that's been holding back for ten days, being careful, being steady, being the man who leaves soup on porches because touching her feels too dangerous.
"So what do you want?"
The mug hits the counter. She steps into me. Both hands flat on my chest, fingers curling into the thermal. Rain thunders on the roof. Her eyes are dark, wide, certain.
"You, Owen. I want you."
My hands are on her hips before the words finish leaving her mouth. Pulling her flush against me, I back her into the counter. Her gasp is hot against my throat. My mouth finds her neck, the soft skin below her ear, and the sound she makes when I suck there goes straight to my cock.
"Tell me where," I growl against her jaw.
"Bedroom. Now."
Lifting her off the ground is easy. She's soft and warm and her legs wrap around my waist, her mouth open on mine, kissing me deep while I carry her down the hallway. Her fingers grip my hair. Pull. The pain sparks down my spine.
The bedroom door bangs against the wall when I shoulder through it. Setting her on the edge of the bed, I pull the scrub top over her head. Dark blue lace bra. Full breasts spilling over the cups. My hands cover them, squeezing through the lace, thumbs finding her nipples already hard.
"You've been walking around my property in this." My voice is wrecked. "Under those thin scrub tops."
"Every single day."
Reaching behind her, I unclasp the bra. Let it fall. Her breasts are perfect. Heavy, dark nipples, soft skin that goosebumps under my palms when I cup them bare. Lowering my mouth, I pull one nipple between my lips, sucking hard enough to make her arch off the bed.
"Owen. Oh god."
Her hands tear at my thermal. Pulling it over my head, I drop it on the floor. Her fingers trace my chest, my stomach, the trail of hair below my navel. When she reaches my belt, I catch her wrist.
"Not yet."
Pushing her back on the bed, I unbutton her jeans. Pull them down her hips, her thighs, her ankles. Dark blue lace panties to match the bra. A wet spot at the center that makes my mouth water.
Kneeling between her legs, I press my mouth to her inner thigh. She shudders. My fingers hook the lace to the side and the sight of her pussy, wet, swollen, waiting, makes every rational thought leave my head.
The first stroke of my tongue pulls a moan out of her that echoes through the bedroom. She tastes clean. Sweet. My hands grip her thighs, spreading her wider. Tongue circling her clit, then flattening, then circling again. Learning what makes her gasp versus what makes her grip the sheets.
"Right there. Owen, right there, don't stop."
Not stopping. Not for anything. Her hips roll against my mouth. My fingers slide inside her, two at once, curling forward while my tongue works her clit. She's tight. Soaking. Clenching around my fingers with every stroke.
Her orgasm builds in the tension of her thighs. The hitch of her breath. Then she comes on my tongue, back arching, hands fisting the quilt, crying out loud enough that if there were guests in the cabins they'd hear her through the walls.
Good.
Standing, I strip off my jeans. Boxer briefs. Her eyes track down my body, land on my cock, hard and thick against my stomach. Her lips part.
"Nightstand," I tell her. "Top drawer."
She reaches back, finds the condom, tosses it to me. Rolls it on while she watches from the pillows with dark eyes and flushed skin, her breasts rising with every breath. Beautiful. Wrecked. Mine.
Settling between her thighs, I line up and push in slow. Inch by inch. Watching her face. Her eyes flutter shut. Mouth open. Hands gripping my shoulders.
"Look at me."
