Page 62 of Eyes in the Shadows

“Hi,” I whisper back. I grab around his neck and press my torso into him. “How was your day?”

“It fucking sucked because I wasn’t inside you.”

His mouth claims mine, and there’s nothing slow or sweet or gentle about it. The Mac from last night that wanted to savor the moment is gone; this version is raw with the hunger created by having already had a taste. His tongue plunges inside my mouth, and his hands press into the fleshy part between hip and ass, holding me still and tight against him so he can grind his pelvis against the hot, soft center of me. My skin tingles, and I shiver from the heat blooming everywhere in my body.

When he pulls away, I almost whine at the loss.

“I’m going to go take a shower. Care to join me?” he asks, reaching up to cup my jaw and run his finger roughly across my bottom lip.

I smile, and touch the pad of the thick digit with my tongue. Then, I pull back. “It’s getting late; I should start dinner. And I just took one.”

“Take another,” he urges, letting his thumb drag his hand across my chin so it can swipe down and circle my throat.

My pulse starts to race and desire floods my pussy, making the whole area pound in time. He applies pressure with just his fingertips, and moves in again, stealing my breath into his mouth and holding me still with his delicate grip. I’mso consumed, so frenzied, that I’m truly lost to my senses as they fill with him—his scent, his touch, his taste.

He pulls back, rubbing the side of my neck softly. “So? Shower?”

I have to take a couple deep breaths to recover. Then, I swallow against his hand with some difficulty. “Um, three in one day seems excessive,” I reply.

“Three?”

“I plan on taking one later tonight after I show you how much I missed you.” I ball the bottom of his shirt in my hands, looking down, transfixed, as it reveals a strip of hard flesh.

He grins. “You missed me, darlin’?”

“Yes, I thought about you all day.”

His eyebrows lift and the look is salacious. His fingers tighten just a hair. In response, I reach up and grip his forearm, feeling those veins under my hand. “And did you touch yourself?” There’s no censure, or approval. Just curiosity.

“No,” I say, and it sounds almost like an admission. He has to know I thought about it, right?

“Good,” he replies. His other hand trails over my hip and down my stomach, lightly running down the seam of my leggings. “It means you’ll be hot and needy for me.”

I moan a little at the feather-light touch. It’s nowhere near enough. Once he reaches the approximate area of my entrance, he starts an upward stroke, never applying enough pressure. At the top, just where my clitoris is, he changes directions again, back down. I shiver and squirm.

“I bet you’re ready now, aren’t you, baby? I bet if I checked, you’d be dripping wet, wouldn’t you?”

“Please,” I cry softly as my eyes drift closed.

“Please, what? Please fuck you here, on the counter?”

I just whimper in need because I don’t want that—anyone could walk in—but I’m so fucking turned on that I also kind of do. I can’t think straight. I know I’d let him, if he wanted to. Thankfully, based on previous statements I’m pretty sure he doesn’t.

“One day, maybe,” he says, letting me off the hook. “I’ll tell you what’s going to happen, though. You’re going to get down off this counter, go into the bathroom,take off your panties and give them to me. Then, I’m going to go upstairs and take my shower and you’re going to cook us dinner.”

Oh, God. He wants my panties? It’s so unbelievably fucking hot. And dirty. “What are you going to do with them?” I wrinkle my nose.

“What do you think? I’m going to take the edge off so I can last more than 30 seconds when I finally get inside this sweet pussy later,” he says with a little smirk, giving it a light slap that makes me jump and the blood rush to my clit from the gentle impact.

I heave a deep breath. He steps back just far enough that when I slide down off the counter, I end up dragging my whole torso against his and we both groan a little. I feel his eyes on me as I exit the kitchen. I’m not 100% sure where the bathroom down here is, but I vaguely remember seeing a closed door near the foyer that looked too big to be a closet.

I’m right. I enter the powder room, and close the door behind me. The tall mirror over the vanity shows me my wild state, and I laugh a little. A quick splash of water to cool my burning face, wet hands to smooth down my hair, and then I’m following Mac’s orders. I give the piece of clothing a preemptive sniff, mostly out of curiosity, and it smells like nothing but clean laundry and tangy desire. And me, I suppose.

I emerge a minute later, underwear in pocket, and hand them to Mac when I see he’s still alone in the kitchen. “Will I get these back?”

“Maybe when they lose your scent,” he shrugs. “That pajama shirt did after a week or so. You can have it back, now. Actually, let me wash it first. It’s probably sticky.”

My jaw drops. “You stole my pajama shirt? I was looking everywhere for that!”

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