Page 9 of Secret Paths

I have to close my eyes for a moment. The sentence lands somewhere below my stomach and detonates.

She unfastens my jeans with hands that are not entirely steady, pushes the denim down my hips, and wraps her fingers around my cock with a grip that is firm and knowing. I am hard enough that the first stroke of her palm makes my vision blur at the edges. She strokes me twice, three times, her thumb sweeping over the head with a pressure that is absolutely calculated to make me lose what remains of my composure.

"Condom," I manage.

"Handbag," she groans.

I step back and grab her handbag from the table where she dropped it, then hand it over. Going treasure hunting through the contents for one foil packet feels like a terrible use of time.

She reaches straight into a side pocket and pulls out a condom. The bag hits the floor without ceremony. She tears the foil open with her teeth and rolls the condom onto me with the practised efficiency of a woman who has absolutely no patience for fumbling.

I pull her to the edge of the counter. She guides me to her entrance, and I push forward slowly, feeling her open around me, the tight wet heat of her drawing a sound from my chest that I do not recognise as mine. She exhales against my mouth, her fingers digging into my shoulders, and her leg locks around my hip with a pressure that says do not stop.

The rhythm starts slow, controlled, each thrust deep enough to make her breath stutter. The counter is at exactly the wrong height for comfort, which means I have to angle my hips in a way that presses me against her with each stroke, and from the sounds she is making, the geometry is working in her favour. Her nails rake down my back through my shirt, which is still half on, which is absurd yet perfect.

"Harder," she says, and her voice has lost its polish entirely now.

I grip her hips and give her harder. The counter rattles. Something shifts near the toaster. Her earrings swing wildly, catching fragments of kitchen light, and she meets me thrust for thrust with a rhythm that is hers, not mine, something she sets and I follow.

Her hand finds my jaw, pulls me down, and she kisses me with a desperation that tastes like surrender. I can feel her tightening around me, the first fluttering contractions that signal she is close, and I change the angle, pressing deeper, grinding against her on each stroke. She breaks the kiss, throws her head back, and comes with a sound that is half cry, half my name, her whole body shuddering against mine.

The clench of her pulls me over the edge. I bury myself in her and let go, my forehead pressed to her shoulder, my breath ragged against her skin, the kitchen spinning in slow circles around us.

We stay like that for a long moment. Her hand comes up to the back of my neck, fingers threading through my curls, and she makes a sound that is quiet and satisfied and entirely hers.

Then I ease back, keeping a hand at the base of the condom as I pull away.

Mandy shifts on the counter, still catching her breath. “Kitchen roll’s in that cupboard.”

I glance over. “That was disturbingly practical.”

“I am a doctor. Bodily fluids do not frighten me.”

“Romance is alive and well.”

Her mouth curves as I take off the condom and knot it. I pull my boxers and trousers back into place before crossing to the sink for the kitchen roll. I wrap the condom, drop it into the pedal bin and wash my hands before turning back to her.

Mandy is watching me with her golden-blonde bob mussed, one bra strap slipping down her shoulder and her skirt still bunched around her hips.

“Well,” she says.

I lean against the counter between her legs. “Well?”

“That was a terrible idea.”

I look at her. “You seem traumatised.”

“I am trying to be sensible.”

“Bit late for that.”

Her mouth twitches. “Peter.”

I kiss the corner of it. “You all right?”

“Yes.” Her fingers tighten briefly at the back of my neck. “Very.”

I step back, and she lets out a soft breath as her feet find the floor.