Spread across my bed.
Mouth swollen from mine.
Voice saying my name like it’s something she chose instead of something she fears.
I turn us, walking her back until her hips hit the counter. She gasps, and I stop.
Her fingers tighten on the back of my neck. “Don’t stop.”
“Bossy.”
“I’m trying it.”
A laugh breaks out of me, rough and stunned.
Then I lift her onto the counter.
She lets me.
More than lets me.
Her legs part around my hips, and the sound that comes out of her when I step between them is going to haunt me for the rest of my miserable life.
My hands brace on either side of her. “Still good?”
“Yes.”
“Words keep coming, Amelia.”
Her breath is shaky. “I’m good.”
So I kiss her again.
The counter is cold. She is hot. Her thighs press against my sides, and my hands want. God, they want. I keep them on her waist, then her ribs, then back to her waist because her shirt is thin and I ain’t a saint. She arches slightly, and my thumb brushes the underside of her breast.
She freezes.
So do I.
I pull back immediately. “Sorry.”
She is breathing hard, eyes dark and wild.
“Again,” she whispers.
My heart slams.
“What?”
Her cheeks go red, but she holds my gaze. “I said again.”
“Touch you?”
She nods.
“Where?”
The question makes her tremble.