Page 20

The air thickens. Charged. Waiting.

I try to move past him to get to the coffee pot behind him, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t give me space. Instead, when I stretch past him, he grabs my wrist. Not hard. Just enough.

“You could say good morning first.”

I look up at him, heart slamming against my ribs, breath coming fast. His eyes are locked on mine—dark, waiting, daring. The air between us crackles, thick with unspoken promise. I surge up and kiss him—hard, hungry, unapologetic. It’s not delicate. It’s raw. Tongues clash, mouths fuse, and everything in me screamsyes. It’s instinct. Fire. Need. And something deeper—something that stakes a claim beneath the skin.

My hand fists in his hair, and he groans against my mouth, grabbing my hips and hauling me flush against him. His cock is hard beneath those jeans, thick and scorching against my stomach, the fabric damp where he’s leaking through. Our mouths tangle—wet, hot, hungry—and I can taste the coffee on his tongue, feel the scrape of stubble against my cheek, the scent of his skin dark and musky, laced with something wild and purely male. Every breath between us turns molten. His tongue slides over mine, and I arch into him, moaning as he backs me into the counter.

“I woke up,” I whisper between kisses, “and you were here. Like this. What did you expect would happen?”

“This,” he growls, lifting me like I weigh nothing and setting me on the counter. “Exactly this.”

His mouth is on my neck, biting down just enough to make me cry out—a sharp, delicious sting that sends a rush straight to my core. His tongue follows, soothing the mark with a slow, wet drag that makes my skin shiver. His hands slide up under my t-shirt, palms rough and hot against my ribs before they find mybreasts, cupping them with a reverence that borders on worship. His thumbs graze over my nipples in slow, teasing circles, coaxing them into aching peaks as my back arches into his touch, needing more, needing everything. The contact is electric—every nerve tuned to him, every breath a plea.

“No bra?” he murmurs, dragging his thumbs across my nipples until they pebble under his touch. His breath catches, jaw flexing as his eyes darken with something feral. He swallows hard, like he’s holding back a groan, and for a second, I can see the edge of his control fray—just enough to make my pulse stutter. “Fuck, Sutton.”

“That's kind of what I had in mind. I'm clean and on birth control.”

“Same—well the clean part, not the birth control.”

He tugs the t-shirt over my head, baring me to the morning light and his gaze. His eyes darken, lingering on every exposed inch of me like he's memorizing it, drinking it in. He stares like I’m something holy and sinful all at once—divine temptation sculpted in heat and hunger. Then he leans in, mouth closing over my nipple with a low, growling moan. He sucks hard, tongue flicking and teasing, and the sharp pull sends a bolt of pleasure straight between my legs. I arch with a gasp, clutching the back of his head, legs wrapping tight around his waist, needing him closer, deeper, now. His other hand palms my breast, rough and warm, while his hips grind forward, pressing his thick heat between my thighs. Every touch, every breath, is a promise of what’s coming—and it’s going to ruin me.

I can feel the wet heat pooling between my thighs, slick and insistent, my arousal soaking through the cotton and smearing against him. He’s throbbing against me, thick and hot, the pulse of him matching the wild rhythm of my heartbeat. Every brush of him sends a shiver up my spine, makes my hips tilt forward on instinct, desperate to feel him where I need him most. My body’salready begging, already fluttering around nothing, aching to be filled.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasps as he peels my jeans and panties off.

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

He shoves his jeans down just enough to free himself, and then he’s pushing my knees apart, dragging the tip of his cock through my slick folds. The contact jolts through me like a live wire—hot, raw, maddening. I’m so wet I can hear it, can feel the swollen, aching throb of my body begging to be filled. My breath catches, chest rising in short, shallow bursts as the anticipation coils tighter. I’m wide open for him, trembling with the sheer need to be claimed, to feel every inch of him stretch and stuff me full. My mind blanks, nothing but want, sharp and wild, taking over.

I gasp, hands braced behind me, every inch of me trembling.

And then he’s inside me.

He slides in deep, slow—inch by inch—stretching me wide until my body quivers around him. The sensation is unbearable in the best way: hot, aching fullness that steals my breath and sends a shudder up my spine. My nails dig into the counter behind me as he bottoms out, groaning against my shoulder, the sound low and raw, like he’s barely holding it together. Every nerve lights up with the feel of him, thick and pulsing, filling every part of me. I’m split open and owned, and I never want him to stop.

“Fuck, you’re tight.”

“Deacon—”

He thrusts—hard, deep—and the breath is punched from my lungs in a broken gasp. My spine bows, head tilting back, the stretch and drag of him inside me igniting every raw, exposed nerve. The words die on my tongue, stolen by the searing pleasure as he fills me again, and again, and again, each strokedeliberate, devastating. I can’t speak—I can only feel. My body clenches around him, slick and fluttering, my thighs tightening as sensation crashes over me in relentless waves. I’m unraveling from the inside out, owned by every inch of him.

The countertop is hard beneath me. His body is fire in front of me. The rhythm he sets is steady and deep, each stroke slamming into me with perfect precision. The friction, the angle—it’s too much, too good. I cry out, hands gripping the edge of the counter as he fucks me like he’s trying to etch himself into my bones.

My head drops back, eyes fluttering shut as pleasure builds sharp and hot in my core.

He leans forward, teeth grazing my throat. “Look at me.”

I do. And that’s what undoes me.

The way he watches me fall apart—hungry, possessive, reverent—like my pleasure is proof of something sacred, like every pulse of my body around his is a vow. His gaze holds me there, tethered, as if in this moment I’m not just his lover, I’m his purpose.

I come with a strangled moan, my entire body convulsing around him, muscles seizing in waves that crest and break with raw, electric pleasure. My thighs lock around his waist, holding him deep, the pressure unbearable and exquisite all at once. I can feel every twitch of him inside me, feel myself squeezing him, milking him, as the climax tears through me like fire—sharp, searing, endless. My breath catches in broken gasps, vision blurring, every sense drowned in the violent, beautiful rush of release.

He follows with a groan, hips jerking hard as he spills inside me, hands buried in my hair, mouth crushing mine in a kiss that feels like war and worship.

We stay like that. Panting. Clinging. Slick with sweat and satisfaction.