“Because I was mad at you.”
“Mad?” he whispers. “Why were you mad? I send you praises of my affection and you’re mad?” His nose rubs against my cheek and I lean into his caress.
“It was obnoxious.”
“It’s how I feel.”
“Bullshit,” I say as his hand smooths around my hip and to my stomach. His pinky finger slips past the waistband of my shorts as he splays his hand across my skin. “You don’t even like me.”
“I do,” he says, but there’s no teasing in his voice. It feels honest, real. “I think you’re pretty fucking cool, Cora.”
“Why?” I say before I can stop myself. “You barely know anything about me.”
“I don’t need to know the details to enjoy your personality, to see you’re courageous, outgoing, and you won’t step down. I like that. There’s life in you. Vibrant, sometimes out-of-control life.”
“Some might say that side of my personality is a downfall.”
His hand rises up my stomach until his thumb caresses the underside of my breast. Involuntarily, I suck in a sharp breath. I can’t remember the last time someone touched me like this: slow, deliberately. And I can’t recall feeling this charged from one touch, one caress.
“I don’t think it’s a downfall.” Like a feather, barely touching me, his mouth trails across my neck. A delicious wave of goosebumps spreads over my skin as I feel myself lean into him more. “It’s what I find most attractive about you.”
Lost in the moment, I ask, “So you do find me attractive? Because from all those times I tried to get your attention, I thought you didn’t.”
He shakes his head. “Nah, I ignored you because I knew if I gave in, it would end up like this, you pressed up against me, me trying to hold back. To not go too far.”
His thumb rubs against my breast, and all I can focus on is what it would be like if he stroked my nipple, sucked it into his mouth, giving me exactly what I need.
“Why don’t you want to go too far?”
“Wasn’t ready for something serious.” His teeth nibble on my ear.
“And yet, you want to stay married. That’s something serious.”
“There’s no point turning back now. I have you. I want to keep you.”
He presses a kiss behind my ear and, fuck me, I melt. Right into him. I let him control me, take over my thoughts, make me think of nothing but the sweet pleasure he could give me.
I want to tell him to touch me, to move his hand south to where I’m pulsing . . . pulsing for him.
“Do you want to keep me?” he asks.
No . . .
Yes . . .
God, I don’t know.
When he holds me like this, teases me, taunts me, tells me that my faults are why he likes me, it makes me think that there could be something between us, that maybe, just maybe, this was all meant to be.
I’m about to answer, when he says, “Time’s up, Cora.”
“What?”
His hand drops from my stomach and he repeats, “Time’s up. Steeping is done.”
Oh, right, we were making tea.
God, the last thing I want right now is tea, especially when I’m all keyed up, ready to go. I want to go back to him touching me. Him whispering in my ear, pressing sweet kisses against my skin. I want him to turn me around, lift me up on the counter, and spread my legs so he fits between them. I want him to bend me backwards and run his hand down my chest, followed by his mouth. I want his mouth on my breasts, his tongue flicking— “Coraline.” His voice demands my attention.
“Huh? What?” I ask.
“You’re not listening to my directions.”
“Oh, what?” I clear my throat. “Uh, the milk, right?”
I can’t tell if he’s amused by my scatterbrain or not, but I lean against him as he says, “This is where you pour in the milk.”
Honestly, my brain can’t process what he’s saying.
I’m a muddled mess of desperation.
Just those few touches, those gentle whispers . . . they’ve fried my brain into nothing.
I can’t be held accountable for what happens next.
I turn in his embrace and rest my hands on his chest. “I would rather finish what you were doing.” Because, honestly, all plans are thrown out the window when I’m feeling like this, hungry for the man in front of me.
“Finish what? I was just talking.”
“You were not just talking,” I say, as my body physically aches, pleading for release.