Page 59 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer

I blink. “Don’t mock me.”

He blinks. “You’ve always looked the most beautiful to me when you’re trying the least.”

Well, shit.

I step aside to let him in. “Aren’t you supposed to text or something before showing up.”

“I did,” he says. “Maybe you were busy?” His eyes flick over me, taking in the damp mess of my hair, the fact that I’m wearing his old T-shirt like some pathetic badge of unresolved feelings.

“What do you want?” I ask, sharper than I mean to.

“Nice to see you too, dear.” He deadpans.

He points to the upstairs. “I thought I’d look at the kids’ bathroom. See if I could at least get the sink running again for now and I’ll finish the rest as I can. Just need some tools.”

My stomach drops. The garage is very much occupied. The last thing I need is him rummaging through it looking for tools.

“That’s not necessary,” I say too quickly. “I’ve got it handled.”

He arches a brow. “Really? Cause the kids said it’s been down and out since some guy stiffed you on a remodel.”

I glare. “I can handle things.”

“Uh-huh.” His smirk says he doesn’t believe me for a second. “Humor me, Elle.”

Shit.

He’s already moving toward the garage when I panic. My body does the only thing it can think of—stupid, reckless, primal. I grab his wrist. “Wait.”

He pauses, brows lifting in surprise.

And before I can talk myself out of it, I kiss him.

It’s supposed to be quick, just enough to distract, but the second my lips touch his, it’s like plugging into a live wire. His free hand slides to my waist, pulling me closer, and I forget the entire English language.

The kiss is rough, desperate—like neither of us planned it but both of us needed it. His mouth tastes like mint and coffee, and I want to drown in it. My heart pounds so hard it drowns out every rational thought, every reminder that there’s a very inconvenient corpse lying not twenty feet away.

When we finally break apart, I’m breathless. He studies me, eyes dark, lips curved in that way that always gets me in trouble.

“Interesting tactic,” he murmurs. “Could have just said you’ve got something else in mind.”

“Yeah, well,” I say, trying to catch my breath, “I’ve always been more of a hands-on communicator.”

He chuckles low in his throat, and for a terrifying second I think he’s going to press the issue—garage, bathroom, all of it. But then his hand lingers on my hip, and I see it: the shift. He’s distracted.

“Bathroom can wait,” he says softly, like it’s a concession just for me.

My pulse stutters. “I like the way you think.”

He kisses me again. Long, deep, slow and I lose myself. I wrap one leg, then the other around his waist and tilt my hips so I can feel him better. His body is hard and unrelenting. His cock already fighting against his zipper.

“Fuck, Elle,” Noah groans, his tone warning yet desperate.

We move as one to the kitchen island. I work myself against his cock, the pressure building. My leggings are no defense against the coarse material of his jeans or the straining bulge beneath them. I’ve never come this fast. If I don’t count toys. But even my best vibrator doesn’t beat the feel of him against me. When he bites down on my nipple through my t-shirt, I explode. Crying out, loud and totally uninhibited. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to come in my house with no kids inside.

My head spins as the rough of his stubble scrapes through the thin fabric of my tee against the sensitive flesh, making me moan his name again and again.

“Fucking destroy me with those little moans, woman.”