He groans, dropping his forehead to mine. “I need to finish cooking. The guys will be here soon. They’ll want food ready.”
“We have time,” I murmur, my lips brushing his. “And I don’t have panties on.”
His breath catches. His eyes flare.
“Fucking hell,” he mutters, smashing his mouth against mine, kissing me hard enough to bruise.
The spoon clatters to the stove, forgotten.
His hands are everywhere—gripping my ass, sliding up my ribs, pressing into the small of my back like he can’t decide where he wants me most.
I arch into him, fingers tangling in his hair, tasting him like I’ll never get enough. The stove hisses behind us, the pan spitting from neglect, but neither of us cares.
His hand skims under my skirt, rough against the bare skin of my thigh. “No panties,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Jesus Christ, Sadie.”
I laugh breathlessly into his mouth. “Told you.”
He squeezes my ass again, pulling me tighter against his growing hardness. My body lights up, heat pooling low, sharp and consuming. I gasp when his fingers brush between my thighs, already slick from the thought of him.
“Boone,” I whisper, biting his jaw, my breath catching when he presses harder, sliding against me.
“Fuck, you’re wet,” he groans, biting down on my shoulder through the fabric of my turtleneck. His other hand fumbles at his waistband like he’s already two seconds from giving in.
I clutch at his shirt, torn between begging him to keep going and panicking that the guys will walk in any second.
“Boone—”
The timer on the stove beeps, shrill and insistent.
He curses under his breath, forehead pressed to mine as we pant, his hand slipping reluctantly from between my legs.
“Fuck,” he growls again, stepping back, chest rising and falling fast. “If we don’t stop now, I won’t stop at all.”
I swallow hard, trying to steady my pulse. My body is screaming for more, but I nod. “Okay.”
His eyes burn into mine like he doesn’t believe me, like he’s still half a second away from pulling me back into him. But then he turns to the stove, grabbing the pan and muttering about putting the meat on.
I’m still trying to catch my breath when the knock comes.
I freeze.
Boone swears quietly, straightening his shirt. I swipe at my hair, my lips, as if I can erase the evidence of what we were just doing.
I open the door—and there’s Shepard.
He’s standing there holding a bottle of wine and a bouquet of flowers, awkward but earnest. My stomach lurches.
“Hey,” he says softly.
“Hey.” My voice comes out thinner than I want.
The air between us is strange, taut with things unsaid. He smiles a little, nervous, hands me the bouquet of roses and then brushes past me into the apartment.
He moves toward the kitchen, straightening when Boone turns from the stove.
“Shep,” Boone says, nodding.
“Boone.” Shepard crosses over, offering the wine. They clasp shoulders in the way men do when words aren’t enough.
