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My nose tingles.“Erik.”

“I know it’s soon,” he adds. “That’s?—”

“I don’t care,” I interrupt. “Iknowyou. In all the ways that matter.”

“Tate.”Framing my face, Erik pulls me in and kisses me.

This time, the kiss isn’t slow or tender. It’s fast. Demanding. Needy.

Erik doesn’t just kiss me. No. It’s a claiming. His tongue parts my lips and plunges deep. Stroking. Teasing. Exploring.

He lifts me onto his lap and I can feel his erection prodding between my thighs, hard and thick and insistent.

Desire coils deep, building in intensity. A fire kindling to an inferno.

One hand comes to my nape, tunneling through my hair. He tilts my head back, changing the angle of our kiss to take it even deeper.

He makes love to my mouth, using his wicked tongue to turn me on more than I’ve ever been from just a kiss.

As we break apart to suck in greedy gulps of air, he lightly bites my lower lip, then caresses away the small sting with his tongue before diving deep into the kiss again.

His other hand comes to my leg, just below the hem of my skirt. The slight rasp of his calloused fingers on my skin sends another surge of desire straight to my core.

I can feel myself getting wetter. Hotter. Opening for him.

Oh.

I want to feel him inside me so badly I ache. Anticipation has my inner walls clutching around nothing as a need verging on desperation builds by the second.

It wouldn’t be hard. Just lift my skirt, push my panties to the side, unzip his pants…

Erik could be inside me in under a minute. I could feel him filling me, stretching me, moving in first slow, then powerful thrusts.

I could look at his face, his striking features taut with desire. His eyes black with hunger as he devours me.

I could find out if his intensity and fierce protectiveness extends to his lovemaking, like I think it might.

If I make the first move, I don’t think Erik would stop me.

We could make love—fine, sex, but it feels like it would be more—and then go for a second round in the bedroom. Take our time with it. Find those tattoos and kiss every one of them.

I’m so close to just saying a mentalfudge itand going for what my body demands.

But.

Annoying reality justhasto make itself known—in the form of the oven timer, announcing the baked ziti is done.

Briefly, I toy with the idea of ignoring it. If I left the ziti cooking for another ten… okay, twenty minutes, I’m sure it would be fine.

Well. Mostly. Maybe a little crispy, but still edible.

But then Erik ends the kiss and asks, “Is that the oven?” His attention darts over to the kitchen. “Do you want me to get it out for you?”

Ugh. Stupid ziti.

“It’s the ziti,” I concede while trying to catch my breath. “But we could just turn off the oven. Let it sit while we…”

In lieu of explaining, I wiggle my butt, feeling his arousal thickening beneath me.