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I loadmy clothes into the closet, aware of how my cutoff jean shorts look ridiculous next to Triston’s designer suits.

He lounges in the doorway watching me.

I feel my cheeks heat. Does he notice the difference in our clothing? Does he care?

Duffel empty, I stuff it into a bin and straighten. The closet is larger than my bedroom in my and Darius’s apartment.

It’s so big, there is an island in the center with more cabinetry and a countertop. I run my hand over the smooth stone. “What do you use this for?”

“Folding,” he answers.

My brows lift. His laundry is sent out and comes back folded every week. I stop, my fingers dancing over the surface.

This counter is like so many parts of this house. It looks beautiful and it’s meant to be functional but it’s for show. “Has it ever actually been used?”

“Are you judging me?” he asks, his voice growing even deeper.

I blush. Here I am worried about my clothes and how inferior I look. The idea of me judging him… “Trust me, I’m not. I’m just marveling…”

“At how much I have that I don’t use?” Triston pushes off the doorframe, still shirtless. I watch him stalk toward me, a flush climbing up my chest.

“Everything in your house is perfect. I’m surprised you’d want me here messing it up.”

He stops just in front of me, and dips down, wrapping his arms under my backside and lifting me up. My hands automatically wrap around his neck, my legs around his waist.

His lips find mine, his kiss slow but intense, before he whispers against my lips, “I want you to mess it up so good, baby.”

I smile, even as he kisses me again.

He turns us both and sets me down on top of the counter, the cool stone touching my bare skin.

I shiver, his hands climbing up under the T-shirt I’m still wearing. He spreads his palms over the small of my back, bending me back as his hips settle in the cradle of mine.

The kiss gets deeper, more erotic as his tongue tangles with mine. I trace my hands down the muscles of his back learning every angle, delighting in each ripple.

His strength fills me with some security that I’ve been struggling to find on my own. He leans forward and I naturally flow back until I’m lying on the counter.

He pushes back up, pulling the shirt I’m wearing up and over my head. Stepping back, he takes my underwear off next. I push up on my elbows, my hair flowing over the counter as I meet his gaze.

“Spread your legs.”

I do, feeling the intensity of his gaze as it travels down my body, zeroing in between my thighs. “We’re keeping you waxed,”he rumbles as he brings both his hands to my knees, spreading me even wider. “Fucking hell, Honeyeh.”

I’m not sure what that means, but I assume it’s good as his thumb brushes over my already throbbing clit.

My head falls back, my chest pushing up as I cry out.

“You’re so beautiful.” But he stops massaging me with his thumb. I lift my head to protest, just in time to see him drop down on his knees and then lean forward, lapping exactly where his thumb had just been.

Pleasure surges inside me, a keening moan falling from my lips. He keeps working me until I’m panting, my legs so open to him that my thighs ache.

But I’m mindless now, threading my fingers into his hair as I pull him closer.

I’m so close I can feel the orgasm when he stops, surging up on his feet.

“Triston,” I protest, reaching for him. “Please.”

He smiles, his eyes hooded and dangerous as he lines his hips up, sinking slowly inside me. “Don’t worry, baby, I’ll give you what you need.”