I pull her in.
Not hard enough to scare.
Hard enough to make the truth obvious.
The being my hard cock.
She feels it.
All of it.
The way I want her.
The way one kiss has me half-crazed.
The way there is nothing fake in the thick ridge pressing against her belly.
She breaks the kiss with a gasp, eyes wide.
I go still immediately. “Too much?”
Her face is flushed. Lips wet. Hair messy from my fingers even though I don’t remember putting them there.
“No,” she whispers.
That one word almost finishes me.
Then she kisses me again.
Not careful this time.
No hesitation. No question.
She kisses like a woman who has spent years being touched wrong and finally wants to find out what her own hunger feels like when it ain’t punished for existing.
It’s messy.
Hot.
Desperate.
Her teeth catch my lower lip. I hiss. She pulls back.
“Sorry.”
“Do it again.”
Her eyes flare.
Then she does.
I lose the fight with my hands.
They slide from her waist to her hips, gripping, learning the shape of her through soft cotton and denim. She is warm and curved and real under my palms. A thousand filthy thoughts hit me at once, all of them bad, all of them mine, all of them kneeling at the same altar.
Her.
Bent over my kitchen counter.