28. 28 #2
She’s soaked through, her blouse clinging to her skin, outlining the swell of her breasts, the curve of her waist. Her skirt hugs her hips and her legs. Christ. Those legs. Thick, smooth, wrapped in sheer black stockings that disappear beneath the hem. Heels still on.
Every inch of her is fucking lethal.
My voice is raspier now. “I see the way you carry yourself. The way you walk into a room like you’re already preparing to defend yourself. I see how you fight—quietly and fiercely and fucking stubborn as hell. I see a woman who hasn’t let herself fall apart, not even when she probably needed to.”
She shifts just enough for my gaze to catch the way her thighs press together, the way the fabric of her skirt clings high, inching up just far enough to test every last thread of my restraint.
“And I see every curve. That sharp mouth that never lets up. That fire in you—pulling everyone close, dragging them straight into your orbit before they even know what’s happening.”
“Everyone? Or just you?”
“Well, I hope to God it’s just me.” With a short, impatient huff, I close the distance between us. “You’re standing there in those heels and stockings, dripping wet and pissed off, looking like sin wrapped in a skirt. You really think I haven’t noticed?”
Her breath hitches. Loudly. The kind of sound that echoes in a quiet room.
The kind that gives a man ideas.
“I’ve spent most of my nights imagining you spread out beneath me, those perfect thighs locked around my head while I devour you until you’re hoarse from screaming my name.”
Colour blooms across her cheeks—not from shame, but from the kind of heat that coils low inside.
She lifts her chin, attempting to slip that armour back into place, but her stance gives her away.
A subtle shift from one heel to the other, like she’s bracing herself against the pull in her body, fighting the urge to close the space between us.
“You… can’t say those things, Michael.”
Her voice is barely above a whisper, but hearing my name on her lips is its own kind of torment. Something so small, so ordinary, but from her, it’s dangerous. Addictive.
“Why not?” I murmur. “Last time I checked, I’m single. So are you.”
Her mouth parts like she’s about to object. “Well—”
“Careful.”
Her head tilts, defiance sparking. “Or what?”
I hold her stare, letting the silence tighten between us until I catch the hitch in her breathing. “I’ll wreck you in all the best ways,” I murmur. “Bend you over this bed and make you forget his fucking name.”
Her hands ball into fists like she’s searching for something to hold onto. “I’m too old for you, Michael.”
“Says who?” I take another step closer. “Age is just a number, and I couldn’t give less of a fuck about it. Not when I can’t get through a single day without picturing you. Wondering what it’d be like to have you, just once. To know what you sound like when you finally stop holding back.”
Her eyes remain locked on mine. They’re daring, and her lids are heavy. I know she is trying to hold the line, but every inch of her is screaming to cross it.
She closes the small gap between us. “I’m thirty-six, Michael. Old enough to know better. I come with too much baggage—”
“So do I. You’re gonna have to try harder than that.” I’m close enough now to feel her minty breath fan across my face.
“You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”
A quiet tsk slips out as I lean in, letting the space between us shrink to almost nothing, close enough that the challenge is in the air between us. “Try again.”
But she doesn’t. Her lips press into a stubborn, thin line. I take her in—the rise and fall of her chest, the tension wound tight in her jaw, the fire she’s barely keeping caged. Her eyes flick down to my mouth, then drag back up to meet mine, and that’s it.
That voice in my head, the one that’s been warring with the urge to keep my distance from her, finally says—
Fuck it.
My no-kissing rule? Out the fucking window.
My hand closes around her jaw while the other slides into the back of her hair, twisting just enough to angle her face toward mine before I crash my mouth to hers.
Hard. Hungry. Exactly the way I’ve wanted since the moment she rolled into town and flipped my world on its head.
Her lips part on a gasp, but I don’t give her a second to think. I take. And she lets me.
Zoe’s mouth opens beneath mine, and the sound that slips out punches through me like a live wire. Her moan spills into the space between us.
My response is instinct. Primal.
A growl starts in my chest and vibrates between us as I crush her closer, one arm locking tight around her waist. The other slides down, my palms finding the curve of her ass. I grip both round cheeks and drag her against me, lifting her just enough that her heels barely kiss the floor.
She gasps into my mouth but doesn’t pull away. She only kisses me harder.
Our tongues clash. It’s not gentle. It’s a fight. A challenge. A desperate tangle of months of tension, snide remarks, and stolen glances, all boiling over into this one moment.
She tastes like peppermint and defiance. My cock throbs against the press of her body, the friction maddening through too many fucking layers. I want more. I want everything.
But right now, I want her to know I’m not going anywhere.
That I see her.
That I want her.
That she’s mine to handle. If she lets me.
And judging by the way her fingers twist into my shirt, dragging me impossibly closer, she just might. I bite her lip. Not hard, but just enough to pull a gasp from her mouth and make her jolt in my grip. Still holding her ass, fingers digging into those perfect curves, I feel it again—that moan.
This one spills straight into my mouth as Zoe presses against me, tongue brushing mine once more before she suddenly pulls away, breath stuttering.
The second she puts space between us, my body revolts.
A sudden chill hits the place where she was pressed up against me.
She’s panting. Hard. Eyes wide. Then she lifts a hand to her mouth, brushing her bottom lip that was just between my teeth.
Did I go too far? Was I too rough? Fuck. She doesn’t say anything right away. Just stares. Red lips parted, pupils blown.
“I should… take a shower,” she mutters and grabs her bag, disappearing into the bathroom without waiting for a response.
I just stand there, hard as fucking steel, not moving. The room’s quiet again, except for the sound of the water starting behind the door. I press the heel of my palm against my cock, which doesn’t help.
I haven’t even seen Zoe naked, and I already know she’s phenomenal. I picture it all—wet hair stuck to her shoulders, skin flushed from the heat, water sliding between those perfect tits I’ve stared at through sheer fabric all goddamn day.
I scrub a hand down my face and turn toward the bed.
My hoodie’s mostly dry now, so I strip it off and yank my jeans down too, just needing some relief from how tight they’ve gotten.
I grab the edge of the duvet and peel it back, needing something to do with my hands.
Air the bed out, just in case. Who fucking knows how long it’s been sitting here. Untouched, or worse, not.
Leaning down, I check the pillows. The sheets smell clean. The faint hint of detergent and softener. Someone’s been through. I’ll take that as a win.
I roll my shoulders out, still half-hard and uncomfortable as hell, and try to breathe through it.
The bathroom door clicks open behind me, and I instantly straighten. Zoe steps out, now barefoot, towel in one hand, her clothes in the other. She’s wearing an oversized white T-shirt, hanging off one shoulder, and black shorts that barely qualify as clothing.
Of course, no bra, and I can’t fucking stop staring. I drag my gaze down to her legs—to those thighs that have been in my head since the first time she walked into the shop—and somehow, she looks just as fuckable as she did in those stockings and sexy red-bottom heels.
My cock, which had started to settle, twitches back to life.
Her eyes drop, and I catch it. Because she’s now noticing the situation in my briefs .
Her gaze lands on my semi, pressing against the fabric, and she doesn’t look away fast enough.
Doesn’t even try to hide it. She turns, but fuck, it lingers.
I notice. Fuck, do I notice. The tension between us could choke the air. It’s thick. Electric.
I nod toward the bed. “Sheets smell clean, at least.”
Her brow lifts. “I’m not so worried about the sheets anymore.”
My throat tightens. “No?”
A flicker plays on her mouth. “You look… comfortable.”
“I am now,” I murmur.
The only light in the room is that shitty yellow bulb overhead.
It casts her skin in gold, softening the edges of everything.
Makes the room feel slower. Closer. Zoe stands there, eyes on the bed, still as anything, but I can see it.
She’s at war with herself. I can practically hear the thoughts clashing in her head.
“Relax, Freckles. I won’t bite.”
“I’m not worried about a little biting.”
My jaw ticks. Yeah, I’m taking that exactly how it sounds. Maybe she’s not afraid of a little roughness. Maybe she wants it. She’s still not moving. Still watching the bed like it’s going to make the decision for her. I pat the mattress beside me. “Come. Get some rest.”
We’re both acting like we didn’t just suck face like we wanted to tear each other apart.
Everything feels weird. Off-kilter. But the tension’s still here, clinging to the walls, hanging between us.
I swallow, clenching my jaw tight, forcing myself not to say something I won’t come back from. Because one word. One move—
And we’re not sleeping tonight .