Flour gets everywhere.
On my hands. In her hair. All over the counter.
I don’t care.
“You’re a menace,” I growl against her throat, teeth grazing the pulse point there.
She arches into me, breathless. “And you love it.”
“Wanna ruin you in every room of this house,” I mutter, mouth hot against her collarbone.
“Start here,” she dares.
Love doesn’t always whisper sweet nothings. Sometimes, it grabs you by the throat, kisses you breathless, and begs you to sin with your whole damn soul.
Her legs tighten around my waist, and I know we’re not making it to the bedroom.
The oven timer beeps.
I pause, heart racing. She groans.
“If you touch that oven right now, I swear to God…” I warn, lips at her ear.
She grins. “We’ll burn the scones.”
I slide my hands to her hips and pull her forward. “Baby, I’ll buy you a bakery.”
Then I kiss her like the world’s about to end.
The second her mouth is on mine again, I forget the rest of the world exists.
I lift her off the counter, her legs locked tight around my waist and carry her through the kitchen like a man possessed. Her fingers are in my hair, tugging, pulling, while her lips trail fire along my neck. Every breath, every soft moan against my skin sends a bolt of heat straight through me.
We barely make it to the couch in the living room.
I lower her down onto it, gently—because it’s her—but the hunger in me is anything but soft. Her hands slide under my shirt, pushing it up, exposing my stomach, and I groan when she scratches her nails along the lines of muscle there.
“Take it off,” she says, voice low, rough.
I yank it over my head and toss it somewhere behind me. Her eyes drink me in like she’s been starved.
“God, Logan…”
I strip her slowly—because I want to savor this, memorize every inch. The old t-shirt falls away first. Then the tiny shorts. Her skin is warm beneath my hands, soft and flushed, and when I kiss my way down her stomach, she arches, breath hitching.
“You’re shaking,” I murmur against her hip.
“I’ve wanted this…wanted you, since I woke up in your arms this morning.”
I look up at her, every ounce of cocky stripped from me.
“Me too.”
I kneel between her thighs and kiss her like she’s air. I take a second to just look at her—flushed and open, spread out beneath me like the sweetest temptation. Like dessert made just for me.
“You don’t know what you do to me,” I rasp, dragging my mouth over the inside of her thigh. “I want to taste every inch of you.”
My hands run up her sides, fingertips skimming ribs, cupping her breasts, drawing a whimper from her lips that shoots straight to my cock. Her back bows, offering more, needing more.
