Page 87 of Until We Come Home

“I’m waiting for you to make a very hard decision that changes your entire life,” I counter, turning to look at her. “I’m fine waiting. And Barnes isn’t in any rush either. He likes you, so anything with your name on it buys me about twice the patience I’d get on my own. Take the time you need.”

She smiles, tapping her foot against my leg. “Thanks. I mean it.”

I lift the door back into place, line up the hinge, and drive the new screws into the packed holes until they bite and hold tight. The apartment still smells like the garlic and rosemary from the chicken I roasted for dinner, and there’s a bottle of white open on the counter, the wine we’ve been working our way through since we ate.

The rain taps against the window over the sink, and she has an old Fleetwood Mac record spinning in the living room. It’s nothing special, a Tuesday night and a broken cabinet, and I can’t remember the last time I felt this content.

I swing the door open and shut a few times. It closes clean, flush with the frame. I rinse the glue off my fingers at the sink.

“All fixed,” I announce, drying my hands on the dish towel. “Just maybe don’t rip it open like it owes you money next time.”

“Yes!” She sets the knife aside and claps, then reaches over to test the door herself. “Look at that. It’s like new. Man, you’re handy as a boyfriend, I gotta say. The firefighter skills, the general ability to handle any given emergency... it’s really working for me.”

“Glad I can be useful,” I tell her, stepping close to kiss her before reaching for my wine glass.

“Oh!” She snaps her fingers. “I came up with this phrase earlier today in the studio while playing around with some choreography. Tell me what you think of this.”

She steps out into the open space between the kitchen and the living room, barefoot on the hardwood in her shorts and tank top, and starts to move. It’s a slow body roll that pours down through her spine like water, then a turn that unwinds into a dip so low her fingertips brush the floor, and she pulls herself back up through it like gravity is optional.

She finishes on one leg, the other extended behind her, her arms reaching up, then drops out of it and takes a little bow. I lean against the kitchen island, my wine forgotten in my hand, and shake my head at her in slight awe.

“Every single time I watch you dance, I’m shocked,” I tell her. “I can’t believe a human body can move like that. You’re so fluid and so controlled at the same time. It doesn’t look like it should be possible.”

She lights up at that, walking back toward me with her hips swaying. “So does that mean you liked it?”

“I loved it.” I set my glass down on the island. “And I mean it. The strength you have is unreal. You could give half the guys at the station a run for their money.”

She steps in until she’s standing between my feet, a pleased flush in her cheeks. “Should I apply, then?”

“Barnes would hire you on the spot. Like I said, he already likes you more than me.”

“Keep going,” she says, poking me in the chest. “You really know how to get to me, ’cause I looove words of affirmation.”

I laugh and hook an arm around her waist, pulling her in until she’s flush against me. I kiss her, unable to help myself.

She melts into me, kissing me back, and I taste the wine on her tongue and the sweetness of the pear. I slide my hands down and grip her ass, squeezing hard, lifting her up onto her toes against me.

When I drag my mouth down to her neck and bite, she gasps and fists her hand in my hair, pulling just hard enough to make me groan. Then her fingers are at the button of my jeans, popping it open, sliding the zipper down, and my cock springs free into her hand.

She looks up at me with a slow, wicked smile, then sinks down to her knees right there on the kitchen floor.

The sight of her nearly undoes me. Mia, kneeling in front of me on the hardwood, her hair loose around her shoulders, her hand wrapped around my cock. She licks a long, slow line from base to tip, and I grip the edge of the counter with one hand and slide the other into her hair, holding on.

“You like seeing me down here for you?” she asks, her voice husky, licking me again and looking up at me through her lashes.

“Fuck, Mia,” I groan.

She takes me into her mouth, and I can’t stop my hips from thrusting forward. She moans around my cock, and the vibration of it goes straight through me. It takes everything I have not to wrap her hair around my fist and fuck her mouth until I come.

She keeps her eyes on mine as she takes me deeper, her cheeks hollowing, her hand working what her mouth can’t reach. Then she slips her other hand down between her own thighs, under the hem of her shorts, and starts touching herself while she sucks me.

I watch her mouth stretched around my cock, her tongue dragging along the underside, the wet, filthy sounds filling the kitchen, and I nearly lose it right there. I want to come in her mouth as badly as I want to come in her pussy. I want all of it, every part of her, and I can barely think straight enough to decide.

When I feel the heat building at the base of my spine, I pull out of her mouth before it’s too late and haul her up by her arms. She gasps as I spin her around and press her forward against the counter, the cutting board and the pear slices shoved aside. She looks back at me over her shoulder, biting her lip, and pushes her ass back against me.

I hook my thumbs into her shorts and drag them down her thighs, and they drop to the floor around her ankles. She’s bare underneath and soaking wet, and I run two fingers through her just to feel it. She whimpers and pushes back into my hand.

“Look at you,” I murmur. “Soaked just from sucking my cock.”