The Duet(87)

It’d been over a week since I’d felt his lips on mine, but my body hadn’t forgotten what heaven felt like. His lips were just as tender and firm as I remembered, and the way he caged me against the island turned any protests into soft, encouraging moans. My hands glided up over his t-shirt, over every dip and curve of his hard chest. If he didn’t do something fast, I’d be having quite a blissful moment on the stool in the kitchen.

“Couch or bed?” I asked, trying to shove myself off the barstool. He didn’t answer, and he didn’t let me up. His arms bent and his head dipped down to steal another kiss. The stool wobbled beneath my shifting weight, but I clenched onto his arms and he held me up. One of his hands worked at my shirt and a chill ran down my spine. Holy, we were going to do it right here, on this stool like a bunch of heathens. Bring it on.

I fumbled with his belt buckle and then tugged his pants down just far enough to get to his boxers.

“Stand up,” he instructed, gripping my biceps to lift me off of the stool. I’d barely found my footing when he tugged my pajama shorts and panties off. The draft from the air conditioner hit the crest of my thighs and goose bumps pricked the back of my neck. I stepped out of my clothing as he tore off my tank top, and suddenly, I was naked. Naked, with my dishes in the sink and my stray cutting board silently judging me from afar.

“Tell me if it’s uncomfortable,” he said, guiding me back to the stool.

I’d have to be sitting on a bed of hot coals to tell him to stop. And even then, I’d probably just go for the ass burn. My head fell back and my eyes fluttered closed as Jason’s fingers skirted along my skin. He was igniting my blood, trying to coax out our passion, but I’d been ready for that moment since I’d found him on the other side of my door.

“Did you hear me?” he asked, nuzzling the skin beneath my ear and then gently biting down on my earlobe.

Holy mother of—

“Yesssss,” I dragged, answering him as best as I could just as his fingers skimmed to the center of my thighs.

That was the last moment in which I was capable of human speech. For the next hour, I communicated in a language only shared by whales and other large marine animals. Mostly just really long moans and sharp cries. Classy, I know.

The edge of the kitchen island pressed into my back, the marble cold and hard, but Jason’s skin was so warm. I clung onto him as he pulled out and sank into me over and over again. There were a few times when the stool threatened to tip over, but Jason kept us upright, shielding my body against the kitchen island with his chest and arms.

I dug my nails into his back as he gripped the back of my thighs with a sense of entitlement, ownership.

I wanted to feel that from him.

And that’s when I realized what I was doing.

I was getting lost in him again. Completely lost in his eyes, and arms, and confident mouth on my body. I didn’t realize until it was over and I was left coming down from my second mind-blowing orgasm that I’d given him exactly what he wanted. Again.

Me with no strings attached.

And even worse, I realized it’d been, dare I say… a booty call.

Arriving at a late hour without notice - check.

Having sex - check.

No expectation of a relationship after - check.

Crap.

As a twenty-seven year old woman with a good personality and decent tits (when I wore the right push-up bra), I needed to grow a freaking backbone. Yet, there I was, letting Jason take whatever he wanted without any regard for what I wanted.

“You look like you’re lost in another world,” Jason noted as he tugged his pants back into place.

Any excitement that had just been circulating through the kitchen had been stamped out like a light. I couldn’t even look him in the eye as he handed me back my tank top from the floor.

“I think I am,” I replied when I realized he was still waiting for a response.

He used his finger to nudge my chin up so that I was forced to stare in his eyes, but it was too hard. I clamped my eyes shut and fumbled for the first excuse I could think of.

“I think that pizza made me sick,” I complained, pressing my hand to my stomach for emphasis. When I opened my eyes again, he was frowning and his eyes were dark, empathetic.

“Can I get you something? An antacid? Water?”

Stop. Stop being so easy to love. You aren’t love. You’re sex and pleasure and all the easy things in life.

“No,” I shook my head, pulling out of his reach. “I think I should just try to get some sleep before tomorrow.”

He pulled his hand through his hair, causing the short strands to stand on end. His brows knitted together and for a second, I thought maybe he didn’t want to leave.