Chapter 35 #2
This time, the kiss goes on and on, soft and sweet, until his hand slides higher on my thigh, and the pressure changes, and the urgency climbs, and the heat between us threatens to burn me alive.
We break apart, gasping.
"I want you," he says, his eyes steady on mine, his mouth kiss-swollen. "I want all of you. But if you want to wait—"
"Ben, I'm pregnant. I think it's a little late for waiting."
He grins, a little smug. "That's true."
"I think the only question is, here or home?"
His brows go up, and a slow smile spreads across his face.
"You know," he says, his eyes going dark, "that is a really excellent question."
And then, like he knows exactly how far he can push me, his hand slides higher on my thigh, and squeezes.
I lean into him, and the table groans.
"I'm going to guess this isn't designed for strenuous use," I say.
He smiles, pushes the chair back, and stands.
I look up, and he hooks a hand under my elbow and draws me to my feet.
The air is electric. My heart hammers against my ribs.
I don't have time to be embarrassed by my eagerness, because he's kissing me again, and backing me toward the counter, sliding a hand up the front of my shirt.
"Kitchen," I gasp, breaking the kiss. "Too many windows in here."
His eyes glitter, and his smile turns wicked. "Let's put that big counter to good use."
I pull him toward the back, and he follows.
"You know," he says, and kisses the back of my neck, making me shiver.
"What?"
"I think this is the best business meeting I've ever had."
I can't stop a laugh. "Shut up, Ben."
"Yes, ma'am," he says, and spins me around, and backs me against my prep table.
He slides his hands up under my shirt, his palms calloused and strong. I tug at the hem of his shirt, and he lifts his arms to help, and I drag it off and drop it, and press my palms to the hot, smooth skin of his back.
He tugs at my shirt, and I lift my arms, and he breaks the kiss to pull it off.
"Paige," he breathes, his eyes on me, and his fingers trace the lace edge of my bra, and my spine arches.
He kisses the side of my neck, the hollow of my throat, the top of each breast, his mouth burning and reverent.
I fumble with his belt and get the button undone, and slide the zipper down, and his mouth goes to my ear.
"Paige," he whispers, "we can go slow if you want."
I hook my fingers in the waistband of his jeans and yank, and his laugh is low and dark, his breath hot.
"I'll take that as a no," he says, and I shove the jeans down over his hips. They catch on the bulge in his briefs.
"Off," I command, and his laugh is breathless and beautiful.
"Bossy," he teases, and takes a step back.
"Impatient. Pregnant."
"Right."
He shoves his jeans and underwear down together, and they pool on the floor. He steps out, and he's naked in the moonlight coming in through the high window, his skin golden and perfect.
I lose my breath and ability to speak.
He gives me a look so dark, it nearly melts me. "I'm glad you approve."
Then he takes a step forward, and his fingers slide under the band of my jeans, and his breath is hot on my collarbone.
"My turn," he says, his voice dark.
His fingers go to my zipper and undo it with agonizing care, and the rasp of metal echoes in the quiet. He kneels, presses a kiss to my belly, and my eyes burn.
"Are you okay?" he whispers.
I'm suddenly, achingly aware that I've never been this exposed in front of another person, and that we're standing in the kitchen of my bakery, a mile of window looking out onto the busy street just one room away.
I nod.
He slips my jeans and panties over my hips, and helps me step out of them.
His eyes rake up my body, and I'm pinned by the heat and hunger in his gaze.
"Paige," he breathes.
"Ben," I say, and swallow, and hold out a hand.
He takes it, and his hand is big and warm and perfect, and he pulls me close.
I let my head fall back, and he kisses the hollow of my throat.
His hands slide around to cup my ass and lift me onto the table. He pushes between my thighs, and I wrap my legs around his hips. His mouth crashes down on mine.
"Now," I gasp. "I can't wait."
His fingers dig into my hips, and his mouth finds the side of my neck. "Fuck, yes."
He's right there, thick and heavy and perfect.
He rocks his hips, and the head of his cock drags against my slit, and we both groan.
I arch my back, and his teeth graze my shoulder.
"Ben," I gasp.
He wraps his fingers around the base of his shaft and positions himself at the entrance of my aching pussy.
I dig my heels into his ass, urging him forward.
He slides an inch, and then two, and the stretch makes me shiver.
"God, Paige, you feel so good."
I try to answer, but the words don't come.
He slides deeper, and my hips rock up, taking him deeper.
He curses, his head dropping forward, his hips pressing flush to mine.
"Are you okay?" he gasps.
I slide a hand down his back, cup his ass, and squeeze.
"Don't stop," I breathe, and rock against him.
His forehead drops to my shoulder. "You feel too good, baby."
He draws out and drives deep, and his groan is pure pleasure. My whole body bows under his touch.
I can't keep my hands still. I'm desperate for him, for his taste and his smell, for the feel of his skin under my hands, for the sound of his voice in my ear.
"More," I beg, and he drives deep, and sets a punishing pace.
I can't think.
Can't breathe.
All I can do is feel, and take him, and feel the wave build inside me, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter.
His mouth finds mine, and the kiss is hot and wild and desperate.
His fingers slip between us, and the heel of his hand drags over my clit.
I come, and his mouth muffles my cries.
My hips buck and shake, and he holds me through it, his thrusts going deep and rough, until I'm trembling.
"Are you good?" he gasps.
"Yes, yes, I'm so good, I—"
"Good."
His eyes flash, and he lifts me off the counter, and turns, and pins me against the fridge, his cock driving deep, his hips slamming into mine, the cold steel biting into my spine, his mouth claiming mine.
It's so raw, so rough, and the contrast drives me over the edge again.
My fingernails dig into his shoulders, and my thighs tighten around his hips; I scream against his mouth.
"Oh God, Paige," he breathes, and his mouth slams down on mine, and his cock drives deep.
The orgasm rolls through me and keeps rolling, and the world dissolves in a white-hot flash of sensation.
He groans against my mouth, pausing for a moment before sliding out and shifting the angle.
"Again," he orders, his voice harsh and commanding.
His teeth scrape my throat, and he drags his hips back so his cock slides against my clit, sending a torturous ache through me.
"Oh fuck, oh God," I gasp, and arch my spine.
He grabs the fridge, and his other hand slides under my ass, and he fucks me until all I can do is feel, and hold, and fall apart.
When the orgasm hits, it's brutal. My vision whites out, and my head thuds back against the fridge, and all I can do is ride it.
He fucks me hard, his mouth hot on mine, and groans against my lips as his hips jerk and his cock pulses inside me.
We collapse, a sweaty mess, and the fridge shudders under the impact.
I can't catch my breath. My heartbeat slams through me, echoing between my thighs, still full of him.
He buries his face in the side of my neck.
"Wow," he mumbles. "I can see why you wanted this fridge so much."
The laugh startles out of me, and he smiles against my skin, nipping at the tender skin just below my ear.
"We could christen the tables next," he suggests.
"Ben."
"Just the worktables. Not the display cases. We're professionals."
I bury a hand in his hair and pull his mouth to mine. "Professional? We just fucked on my workbench."
He grins. "Only a little. It was mostly against the fridge."
I sigh. "You are an incorrigible sex fiend."
He winks. "You love it."
He's not wrong.
I do love it.
I love him.
And that scares me.