Page 115 of Neap & Spring

Her breath hitches again, her pupils dilating further. “Chef.”

“Better.”

I lift her onto the prep table in one fluid motion, and she lets me, her body pliant. She wraps her legs around my waist, pulling me closer instinctively, like her body knows exactly what to do.

“This is insane,” she breathes, but she’s already pulling me back down to kiss her.

“Probably.”

“We shouldn’t.”

“I know.”

“Someone could —”

“Everyone’s gone.” I kiss along her jaw. “It’s just us.”

“But —”

“Vivi.” I pull back just enough to look at her. “Do you want me to stop?”

Her chest is heaving, her skin flushed. Her hands are on my shoulders, fingers pressing hard enough that I’ll probably have marks tomorrow. I hope I do. I want the evidence of this — of her — on my skin.

“No,” she breathes. “Don’t stop.”

“Then stop thinking.”

I kiss along her jaw and down her throat, taking my time now. She tilts her head back to give me access. Her pulse is racing under my lips, her skin salty-sweet. When I reach the hollow of her collarbone, I bite down gently, and she gasps, her legs tightening around me, her back arching.

“Cal!”

I stop immediately, pulling back to look at her with a smirk. Waiting.

She catches on, her eyes widening slightly, then darkening. “Chef,” she purrs, correcting herself.

“Such a good girl.”

My hands slide up her back, feeling the way her muscles move under my palms, the delicate bumps of her spine, the way her shoulder blades shift when she moves. She’s trembling slightly, and I don’t know if it’s from nerves or want or both, but it makes me gentle my touch just a fraction, slow down even though every instinct is screaming at me to go faster, take more, claim every inch of her.

“You’re shaking,” I murmur against her throat.

“I know.”

“Nervous?”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” Her hands slide down my chest, fingers tracing the lines of ink on my arms with a reverence that makes my breath catch. “I’ve thought about this. About you. For so long.”

The admission hits me square in the chest and steals the air from my lungs.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She pulls my shirt over my head, and I let her. I let her pull it off my shoulders and let it fall to the floor somewhere behind me, forgotten.

Then her hands are on my chest, exploring with a hunger that matches my own. Tracing the lines of muscle. Her fingers find the tattoos on my arms again. She slowly traces the patterns there like she’s trying to memorize them by touch.

“I’ve wanted to do this,” she murmurs, her voice low and almost awed, “every time I see you in the kitchen when you roll up your sleeves and I can see these.”

She looks up at me, a small smile playing at her lips, as she pulls me back down to kiss her.