Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
PINEAPPLE
I should have been satisfied with the kiss.
A smarter man would have been. A better one might even have taken the victory for what it was and stopped there, with her mouth warm beneath mine, my hand firm at her waist, and that sweet, trembling little sound still caught somewhere between her throat and my name.
I am neither of those men, and Pizza is standing there with her back against the counter, her lips parted, her pulse beating hard under my thumb, and the whole gorgeous line of her body answering me in ways she still has not figured out how to hide.
I let my forehead rest lightly against hers while we both breathe, and even in that small pause I keep my hold on her, because I can feel how close she is to tipping one way or the other.
She is all heat now, all restless want and tight-held nerves, and there is a part of me that wants to take every inch she gives and keep going until she is soft everywhere I touch.
There is another part that knows exactly how important this moment is, because women like her have spent too much of their lives being handled without being read properly, and I have no intention of becoming one more man who mistakes hunger for permission.
“You need rules,” I murmur, my mouth brushing the corner of hers when I speak. I take my cream coated fingers and withdrawal them from her overheated core.
Her lashes flutter. “Do I?”
“Yes.” I slide my hand from her throat to the back of her neck, keeping the contact warm and steady while I look at her long enough to make sure she hears the seriousness underneath the heat.
“Because if I keep going, sweetheart, I’m going to want to take my time with you, and I need to know where the line is before I put either of us over it.
” I suck on the juices coating my fingers while I wait for her to register what I’ve just said and done.
That gets her attention in a different way. I watch it happen, the awareness sharpening through the haze of want, the soft little give in her mouth tightening with thought. She likes that I asked. More than that, she needs it, though I know better than to say so out loud.
“What do I…how does this work?” she asks, and the question comes out lower than usual, roughened by all the kissing and all the things she is still trying not to feel too openly.
“I want to know what you like hearing when I’m in your space,” I say. “I want to know whether you want me using my hands to hold you where I want you. I want to know what happens if I tell you not to move.”
Her breath catches at that last part, and the sound goes straight through me.
I stroke my thumb lightly over the side of her neck, a quiet reassurance, a quiet claim. “And I want a word if you need me to stop.”
She looks at me for a long second, and there is still that fight in her, still that proud, stubborn streak that wants to act like she can stand in front of me with her lipstick smudged and her body warm from my mouth and pretend she is not aching. It makes her prettier. It makes me meaner.
“I like hearing you be smug,” she says at last, trying for dry and missing by a mile. “Unfortunately.”
I laugh softly. “That much I knew.”
Her eyes narrow, though the corners of her mouth betray her. “I like your hands.”
My grip at her waist tightens just enough to make her feel it.
“And,” she continues, a flush rising up her throat, “if you tell me not to move, I’ll probably hate you for it.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
A shiver runs through her, sharp and clean. “No,” she says, and now the truth is there in her voice, warm and open and far more intimate than anything we’ve done so far. “You tell me not to move, and I’ll listen.”
My whole body goes taut with the force of wanting her.
“Safe word?” I ask.
She wets her lips, then gives me a look so dry it would have been funny if I were not currently trying not to pin her to the counter and kiss every smart remark out of her. “Foliage.”
The laugh leaves me before I can stop it. “That’s terrible.”
“It’s memorable.”
“That it is.” I kiss her once, slow and deep enough to make her sway into me again. “Foliage means stop. If I ask you whether you’re all right, you answer me honestly. If I tell you to use your words, you use them. Can you do that for me?”
Her eyes hold mine. “Yes.”
The answer settles right in my already throbbing shaft. I kiss her again for the simple pleasure of hearing how her breath changes when I take my time with it, and then I draw back just enough to look at her properly. “Good girl.”
This time when I say it, she actually melts a little.
I move one hand to the counter beside her and let the other trail down her side, over the curve of her waist, along the line of her hip where the fabric of her dress clings like it was made to tempt me.
Her skin is warm beneath the silk, her breathing uneven in a way she would hate if she were not already too deep in this to care properly, and I let myself enjoy all of it.
The whole point of taking my time is letting her feel every step.
“Hands on the counter,” I tell her quietly.
Her eyes flick up to mine, dark and already too yielding for my peace of mind. “Bossy.”
“Very.” I brush my mouth over hers again, keeping the contact soft while the command settles in. “Hands on the counter.”
She obeys.
The sight of it nearly wrecks me.
There is something about Pizza choosing to put her palms flat against the polished stone while I stand between her knees and look at her like this that turns the whole room molten.
Her shoulders pull back. Her chest rises on a shaky breath.
Her nipples pebble under the dark fabric, visible enough to make my mouth water.
She sees me notice and flushes harder, which only gives me more to savor.
“There you are,” I murmured. “That looks good on you.”
Her eyes drift half shut for a second, and I know praise hits her exactly where I thought it would.
I kiss my way down her jaw, then lower, taking my time with the long line of her throat, the place beneath her ear that makes her breathing hitch, the hollow at the base where her pulse flutters fast and sweet under my mouth.
She tries to hold still. She really does.
By the time I reach the edge of her neckline, though, the effort has already started to shake through her.
“Stay put,” I tell her, my voice low against her skin.
The little sound she makes then is worth every scandal of the evening.
I keep one hand at her waist and slide the other up her side until my thumb brushes the underside of her breast through the dress.
She gasps, her whole body pulling taut, and I lift my head just enough to watch her face while I do it again.
Her mouth opens. Her lashes flutter. That beautiful, embarrassed hunger on her face makes something deeply possessive move through me.
“You’re such a good girl for me,” I say. “Every kiss. Every little touch. All that heat goes straight through you.”
She tries for some cutting reply, though all that comes out is my name with too much breath in it.
I smile against her throat. “That’s what I thought.”
I kiss her again, lower this time, the bodice of her dress turning into a problem I immediately resent.
My hand comes up to cup her breast fully now, just enough pressure to make her arch, and when I circle my thumb over the tight point straining beneath the silk, her whole body jolts under my hand.
“Pineapple—”
“Use your words.”
Her cheeks go pink enough to make me ache. “You know what you’re doing.”
“I know exactly what I’m doing.” I drag my mouth back up to hers and kiss her until she makes that helpless little sound again. “The question is whether you want me to stop.”
“No.”
The answer comes quick this time, almost indignant, and it makes me grin.
“Good girl.”
She shudders so hard I feel it in my own bones.
I keep her there with one hand at her waist while the other works the top of her dress lower, just enough to bare the upper curve of her breast, then more than enough when she doesn’t stop me, doesn’t even try.
Her skin gleams warm under the lights, soft and lush and perfect, and I lower my head to press a kiss there first, then another, letting my mouth trace a slow path toward the aching bud waiting for me.
When I close my lips around it through the thin lace of her bra, she jerks against the counter and nearly breaks her own rule.
“Stay,” I remind her.
“I’m trying,” she breathes with a whine, which only makes me want to ruin her composure more thoroughly.
“I know.” I kiss the place I just tormented, soothing it, then do the same to the other side until she is trembling evenly beneath my hands. “You’re doing beautifully.”
Her head falls back. Her hands grip the counter harder. The smell of her perfume has gone sweeter with arousal, warmer, mixed now with something that is only her, that womanly essence of want and effort and surrender trying not to call itself surrender yet.
I could push further. God, I want to. I want her dress on the floor, her thighs around my hips, her voice breaking apart under my mouth while I tell her exactly how pretty she looks when she stops fighting me.
I want to know how far she’ll go if I keep praising her, keep touching her like this, keep letting that dommed-up little part of me have its way with every reaction she gives me.
Instead I make myself slow down, because the point is not stripping her bare at the first chance. The point is making this last. The point is showing her that being under my hand can feel safe and filthy and sweet all at once.
I kiss her until she is soft again, until the strain leaves her shoulders, until her hands slip from the counter to my chest of their own accord.
Then I gather her into me, one hand at the back of her neck, the other spread broad over the small of her back, and hold her there while she catches her breath against my throat.
“You still with me?” I ask.
She nods first, then remembers herself. “Yes.”
“Too much?”
“No.” Her voice is muffled against my collar. “Just enough to make me hate you.”
I laugh, low and pleased. “Liar.”
Her mouth brushes my neck in something halfway between a bite and a kiss. “You like it when I lie.”
“I like it when you try.” I ease her back just enough to look at her, smoothing a thumb over her flushed cheek, then over her lower lip where I’ve kissed the lipstick almost entirely away. “And I like this even more.”
Her eyes soften in that way I am rapidly becoming addicted to, and before she can hide it again, I kiss her once more, slow and easy this time, less command than promise.
“We stop here tonight,” I tell her.
She blinks, clearly not expecting that. “We do?”
“We do.” I press one last kiss to her forehead, then to the corner of her mouth, because I am only half civilized and she looks too kissable to leave untouched.
“You’ve had a night. I’ve pushed you enough for one scene.
Next time I put you on a counter and tell you to hold still for me, I want need you fully rested, hydrated, and ready for everything I want to do to your savory little body. ”
The pulse in her throat jumps again.
“Next time?” she asks.
I smile against her mouth. “Sweetheart, after the way you listened for me tonight, there is absolutely going to be a next time.”