Page 45 of Brash for It
“A little.”She lifts a shoulder then gives me a sly smile.“A lot.”
We hold there, in the charged space where choice lives.I feel the old grooves in me—the ones that say reach, take, make it into heat because that’s what you know.I ignore them.I step in without closing the last inch.Her breath brushes my throat.My hands find the counter on either side of her hips, not touching her yet, caging without trapping.
“You want me to kiss you?”I ask, because there’s a difference between momentum and consent, and I like the second one better.
“Yes,” she says, clear as a bell.
So I do.Slow at first, because I like a build.Her hands skate under my shirt at the small of my back, fingers hot as the grill had been, tugging me in.I pin her gently to the counter, keeping enough space for air because breathing is important.Her mouth opens on a sigh that sounds like now and I give it to her.
The kiss turns.It always does.Slow to heat, from heat to pull, pull to a climb.I work her mouth like I tune a motor, listening for what the engine is telling me, changing pressure when it begs for it, easing off when it spikes too fast.She answers, rhythm for rhythm, getting better at her own body, getting less shy about letting me know what works.
My hand drifts south, not sneaky, just greedy.She curves into it, wordless yes.The counter digs the backs of her thighs.I slot a knee between hers and she rides it without shame, chasing what she wants like tonight taught her she’s allowed.Her head tips back, throat exposed, and I take the invitation to lay my mouth where her pulse hammers, to mark with lips and heat, not teeth.
“Kellum,” she breathes, and it wrecks me.Every time.
I slide a hand to the waist of her jeans, pop the button, draw the zipper slow.She’s already there, body ahead of thought, ready.I cup her and she shudders; I work her with the patience I’ve learned pays off, a firm circle, a slow drag, the little pressure that turns the noise in her head into music.She chases it, hips grinding, mouth open, hands in my hair like she’s trying to hold on to gravity.
“Look at me,” I command, and she does, eyes blown and honest.“You’re doing it.”
Her laugh breaks into a moan.“You’re doing it.”
“We’re doing it,” I correct, and push her that last inch.
She comes with that sharp, clean break.Her body bows, then melts, her hands finding my shoulders like she’s saying thanks without words.I ease her down slow, kissing the corner of her mouth, the spot under her ear, the place on her jaw that makes her go soft.
We stand there for a minute, breathing.The porch light hums.A car goes by and the driver doesn’t know something just happened in a kitchen that smells like garlic and dish soap.I right her jeans without rush, zip, button, press my palm to the flat of her stomach for one more second because I like how it feels to have her keep the heat.
She blinks up at me, wrecked and bright.“You’re… unfair.”
“Probably,” I state.
Her hand slides down, tests how unfair I am, and finds me rock hard.I hiss through my teeth, grip the counter harder, try to remember every rule I invented for nights like this with her.Anyone else I would have fucked senseless weeks ago.With Kristen it matters and I have mentally talked myself down almost every night for months.
“Kristen,” I warn, and she smiles like the woman who told a rich boy to leave her porch.
“Adults,” she whispers kissing my jawline.“Consenting adults.You wouldn’t deny me, would you.”
“Consenting isn’t always smart,” I warn.
She pouts just for show.“You won’t?—”
“Not tonight, darlin’, but soon.”I explain.I make it a promise, not a punishment.“You earned something bigger than chasing another adrenaline rush.You earned a night where the loudest thing you hear is your own voice telling a man to leave your house.”
She exhales, a laugh bumped into by a sigh.“You make restraint sexy.”
“I’ve got a lot of practice.”
“I hate that you want to be good to me sometimes,” she admits, and leans up for one more slow kiss that tastes like wine and wreckage and the quiet after a storm.
I will my cock to calm down because tonight isn’t the night.We clean the counter because life goes on, then we step outside because the night is too good to waste and the moths deserve an audience for their poor choices of dancing with the heat.She leans against the porch post; I lean beside her, fingers brushing, breath mixing like I want our bodies to soon.Somewhere there is a dog whining about being inside.Somewhere a kid laughs at something on a screen.The world is the world.Our porch is ours.
“You okay with me calling the cops if he comes back?”she asks after a while, not looking at me.
“Yeah,” I tell her.“I got nothing to hide, darlin’.My house is clean and always will be.Outlaw life doesn’t mean outlaw home.And are you okay with me calling our lawyer if he tries anything cute with your job?Should tell you, you’re gonna have a man on you for a bit.Probably a prospect, but until Brian has moved on with his life, I would feel better having Hellions eyes on you.”
She smiles.“I like your brand of security.”
“Low-tech.Reliable.”
