“You can call me whatever you want. Boyfriend. Bodyguard. I don’t care as long as you kiss me. Now. And, honey, I’m not—”
Lily’s body fell against his and it no longer mattered that he hadn’t added “waiting a year” to the end of his declaration. She’d moved so fast that he hadn’t seen her push off from the counter surrounding the sink.
Her hands ran over his chest, up to his shoulders, and down his arms. Her fingers linked with his as her body pressed close. He groaned as she rose to her tiptoes and her breasts brushed his chest.
We should have gotten naked first.
But then her lips pressed against his and he forgot all about T-shirts. Sure, her breasts remained front and center in his mind as she drew closer . . . until her lips parted and her tongue touched his.
Lily.
His body responded as if hopeful she might kiss him lower. But they weren’t there yet. Not even close.
He pulled his hands free from hers. He had to touch her. Now. His palms glided up her arms, over her long-sleeve T-shirt to her shoulders, and down her back. Her left leg lifted and wrapped around his waist.
Be a gentleman and help her.
He placed a palm under her thigh, guiding it higher and higher. Maybe he couldn’t fire a gun. But his damaged hand had no trouble slipping under the seam of her panties. She’d left her thong at home today. And though he was tempted to check and see if her underwear matched her dark red nails, he couldn’t tear his lips away from hers.
He wanted to stay right here, lost in her mouth and the familiar feel of her body rocking against him. Let the outside world fade away. To hell with what he should or shouldn’t do.
Like coming home to stay.
She moaned against his mouth as his fingers explored the blond curls between her legs. And the last hold on his control slipped away.
Without breaking their kiss, he guided her back until the sink was at her back. Then he lifted her up and pressed her legs wide. She, in turn, released him and rested her hands on the vanity’s edge. She was open, ready, and kissing him like she never wanted to let him go. The desire to take her, claim her, make her his again threatened to overwhelm.
Not in a fucking bathroom.
Hell, if he took her right here against the sink or with her back to the walls, the sheetrock beneath would probably give out. But he didn’t need to take out a wall to end their visit to the bathroom with a bang.
He held her waist with one hand as his right drew small circles over her inner thigh. His fingers slipped back under her panties. With her lips parted, his thumb found the spot that would drive her straight into the kind of bliss that would leave her screaming—
“More!” she cried, pulling back from his kiss.
He ran his thumb back and forth, paying attention to the way her hips rocked against his fingers. He ignored the cramping in his hand. He didn’t need all of his fingers for this. He just needed to pay attention. A good orgasm was in the details. If he listened to her response, the soft moans, the familiar words, altered his delivery . . .
“Oh . . . my . . . ”
He stole a glance at her face. Lips parted, eyes closed, head thrown back, she looked as if she was lost in pleasure. And I put her there. Satisfaction swelled along with another part of his body that would require attention later. After. Right now . . .
Her long ponytail teased the faucet as her back arched and her breasts thrust higher in the air. One of these days, he was going to strip off her long-sleeve top and touch every damn inch of her.
“Now! Now!” she screamed.
His gaze dropped lower as her bottom lifted off the vanity’s edge. Her skirt was bunched around her waist, her legs splayed and open to his touch. He felt her tighten around the fingers he’d slipped inside her as the climax took hold.
“Yes,” she hissed.
Her bottom rose up as her body rode out the pleasure. And her hips reached higher, her feet pressing into the vanity’s door. He ran his thumb over her again.
Bang.
Crash.
In one orgasm-fueled moment, her head hit the mirror hanging over the sink and her feet pushed through the vanity’s door. Both came apart under the force of her pleasure. The mirror fell from the wall, hit the edge of the sink, and then crashed to the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw broken glass decorating the toilet seat.
The door to the cabinet below the sink hadn’t fared much better. She’d kicked it off its hinges. And yeah, he should probably feel something other than pride that he’d driven her to destruction with a single climax. But . . .
Maybe later when Noah gave him hell for tearing up his bar.
Lily lifted her head and opened her eyes as her hips rested down on the edge of the sink again. He withdrew his fingers and stepped back. His hand had blown past aching to outright pain. And he didn’t give a damn.