Page 19 of Texas (Route 69 #1)

Inside, the lights are low. She lets go of my hand and walks to the sink, fills a glass with water, drinks half, then sets it down. I trail after her, silent, watching the way her shoulders rise and fall. She turns and meets my eyes. “What do you want?” she asks, voice soft.

I smile slowly. “What are you offering?”

That gets a smile. It’s small but real. She steps into me, presses her lips to mine, and just like that, the air shifts.

The heaviness from earlier is still there, but it’s wrapped in something else now.

Hunger. Need. I back her into the counter before she can even take a breath.

Her laugh is low and startled, her mouth already opening for mine like we’ve done this a thousand times.

Like we’re starving in ways no food can satisfy.

Her hands slide under my shirt, nails dragging across my stomach, and I groan into her mouth.

“Seriously,” she pants between kisses. “We should eat.”

I kiss her harder, teeth grazing her bottom lip. “We are.”

She hums, that soft, dangerous sound I’m starting to crave. “I meant food, Reggie.”

“I know.” I nip her jaw, then trail my mouth down to her throat. “But unless you’ve got a craving for something other than me right now, I’m not hungry.”

Her head tilts, breath hitching as my tongue flicks below her ear. “Actually,” she says, glancing toward the cupboards. “I might have an idea.”

I raise an eyebrow, already intrigued. “Yeah?”

She wriggles out of my hold and walks to the pantry, where she reaches up, stretches, and pulls down a glass jar of raw honey. “This,” she says, holding it up like a prize. “This is what I want.”

My grin is slow and wide. “You want me sticky, baby?”

Leaning against the counter, she unscrews the lid and dips a finger into the amber syrup. Then she steps forward, presses that finger to my mouth. “I want you sweet.” Slowly, I suck her finger, my tongue curling around the honey.

Her breath catches and I don’t break eye contact. “You sure you’re ready for this kind of dessert?”

“Try me.”

I’m on her before the words finish leaving her mouth.

My hands grip her waist, moving her so her back’s against the counter again.

Kissing her, I taste honey and heat and something a little wild.

Dropping to my knees, I unbutton her jeans with slow precision.

She watches me, eyes wide, lips parted, chest rising and falling fast. Sliding the denim down her legs, I drag my fingers along her calves as I go.

She steps out of them, bare now except for the soft cotton of her black panties.

I hook my fingers in the sides and pull them down too, slow enough to make her thighs tremble and then I reach for the jar. “Spread your legs,” I murmur.

Without hesitation, she does, leaning back on the counter, her hands gripping the edge.

I dip two fingers into the honey and trail them along the inside of her thigh, then over her center.

She gasps, hips twitching and I follow the line with my mouth, licking it off her skin.

She moans when I reach her, when my tongue brushes the sticky sweetness over her lower lips.

I take my time, licking, teasing, letting the honey mix with her wetness.

She’s soaked already, and the mix of sweet and salt is addictive.

“Reggie,” she whispers. “Please.”

Then I’m pressing two fingers into her while my mouth works her clit.

She cries out, loud and unfiltered, hips grinding against my face.

I keep going, licking her through the honey, through every sound she makes.

She comes hard, thighs clenching around my head, honey smeared across her skin, her voice a high, shattered moan.

I don’t stop until she’s sagging, boneless, against the counter.

I stand, kiss her, letting her taste herself on my tongue, then I scoop her up in my arms.

“You’re not carrying me,” she protests weakly, arms around my neck, legs wrapped around my waist.

“You’re not walking,” I growl, already heading down the hall.

The bedroom’s dim, lit only by the bedside lamp.

After I lay her down on the bed, I strip off my clothes one by one.

She watches me, eyes half closed, her lips swollen, and body still trembling.

I look at her. “Your turn.” She smiles and pulls her shirt over her head.

Then her bra until she is only soft curves and flushed skin.

I crawl onto the bed beside her, kiss the hollow of her throat, the swell of her breast, the dip of her stomach. “Now turn around.”

She hesitates for half a second, then nods and shifts, straddling my chest, facing away.

Her ass is round and perfect, her pussy hovering above my mouth.

I slide my hands along her thighs, guiding her down.

At the same time, I feel her mouth on me, hot and wet.

It’s like falling into a loop of sensation.

Her tongue flicks over my clit, then sucks it into her mouth while I groan into her, licking her slow and deep.

We move together, a rhythm of tongues and breath and wet heat.

She trembles on top of me. My hips grind up into her face.

I can feel it building but I hold back until she comes first, again, her whole body locking, her scream muffled against my skin.

I follow seconds later, my orgasm crashing through me like a wave, her mouth still sucking, still licking, still relentless.

We collapse together, tangled and sweaty, our bodies humming and spent. She shifts, turns, and crawls up my body until she’s lying on top of me, her breath warm against my neck. “That,” she whispers. “That was the best fucking dessert I’ve ever had.”

I laugh, my hand stroking her back. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

We lie there for a while, not speaking. Her fingers trace circles on my skin. Mine tangled in her curls. My body’s still humming, but it’s not only the sex. It’s her. It’s this, the quiet after. The part I never stick around long enough to feel. Until now.