Chapter Nineteen
Nineteen
Adrian cups my face in his hands and kisses me.
My lips part in invitation and his tongue brushes against mine.
A tingling warmth descends over every inch of my skin.
He tastes as good as I remembered, like mint and citrus.
Our next kiss is fuller, rounder, each of us giving ourselves over to the motion of it.
I sink my teeth into his bottom lip and he groans.
The sound stirs deep inside me. Heat pools between my legs and want uncoils in my chest. I want him—desperately. It’s not just today or right now. This feeling has been with me for days. I’ve just repressed it, beaten it back. Forced it into hibernation.
Now that I see the scope of it, it’s almost startling.
In the past, moments like these were always part of a plan or a schedule.
I’ve kissed other men, slept with other men, because it made sense or because I felt I needed the experience or because it was the logical next step in the natural progression of a relationship.
It’s not to say I’ve never felt attraction or lust. But this—this is different.
That was like lighting a candle and watching the flame dance. This is like becoming the fire.
I’m desperate for him now and that flickering flame infuses every movement of my body: the tug of my hands against his neck, the press of my tongue against his, the murmur of a sigh on his lips.
Adrian, clearly, notices the shift because his movements change, too.
His hands are suddenly everywhere: pinning my braid to the back of my head, running up the smooth skin under my shirt, cupping the back of my thigh and hitching my leg between his.
I can feel his desire. Not just in the way that he captures my mouth or murmurs against my neck.
But in the way he breathes me in, like he’s been waiting for this moment for just as long as I have.
The thought is a puff of air on an already billowing fire.
Adrian presses me backward until my low back hits the edge of the kitchen counter and I can feel the cool surface just beyond my thin nylon shirt.
I want more of that—more sensation, more friction.
My hands find the hem of Adrian’s T-shirt and he moves his arms so I can pull it free.
His expanse of muscles gleams in the low light.
I run my hands against his velvety skin, touching him in the way I’ve wanted to since that day on the ergs.
Since the first time I saw him do an arm balance on a yoga mat or sit in a rowing shell.
I revel in the contours of his chest, smoothing my fingers across the dent in the middle of his sternum, the pocket beneath each of his pecs.
We meet each other’s eyes and before this goes any further, I wrap a hand around his wrist and angle our bodies toward the door that I think leads to his bedroom.
But Adrian remains solidly in place. Instead, he scoops two hands under my backside and lifts me until I’m sitting on his kitchen island.
“You cook food on this surface,” I remind him, even though the scallops are a safe distance away.
He laughs against my throat. “I also own a variety of countertop sanitizers. Besides.” He pushes back from me slightly, two hands pressed on either side of my legs.
From this vantage, he has to tilt his head to look up at me.
“I’ve spent a long time thinking about all of the things I can do to you in this position. ”
“How long?”
He takes my mouth in his and then moves his lips to my ear. “You thought you were tortured by my shirt? I’ve been tortured by that damn porch.”
Adrian runs a hand along my inner thigh, pushing my legs open wider.
“You were like this,” he murmurs as he moves closer, slotting into the space between my knees. Flattened together, I can feel he’s hard through his jeans. “And I was like this,” he adds and runs a hand up my spine, cupping the back of my head.
Heat gathers in all the places he’s touching, sending waves jackknifing through my fingertips.
“And then I almost fell,” I say.
Adrian’s arm tightens around my waist. “Nowhere to fall this time.”
Then his lips are on my skin again, traveling across my neck, running up the crease of my jawline, finding the sliver behind my ear. And, oh, it’s heaven. Every one of his touches sends a cascade of tingles over my skin, a rush down my spine.
Still. We can’t just do it out here. Beds exist for a reason.
“Adrian,” I say again. I tug at his elbow. “This isn’t the place.”
His lips loosen from my throat and he pulls back enough that I can see the smile in his eyes. “You have a pre-approved list of acceptable places for sex?”
“No. Well. I mean. I guess, like, a rough list.”
Adrian’s chuckle is low.
“What?” I ask.
He smooths his hands down the backs of my bare arms and there’s this thing in his eyes—like I’m something precious that can’t be broken. “That is just so perfectly you.”
And for the first time in a long time, it is as I said.
Right now: It’s just me. I’ve never felt so exposed or so seen.
I’m neither whole nor unbroken, but Adrian makes me feel like my cracks and splinters are something to admire.
Like they are battle wounds that prove my worth.
I’m dizzy with this feeling, head untethered and floating.
My need for him deepens. It’s a cliff. An abyss. Something I can sink inside. A place I can lose myself. I’m desperate to feel his skin against mine and the gloss of our bodies moving together. I curl my fingers under the hem of my racerback and tug it off.
Adrian’s eyes skim over the surface of my torso and I try to keep my head high.
I don’t want to be surprised when I see the inevitable disappointment in his eyes.
I know what I am—a body built for racing and lifting and sprinting.
I’m hard where other women are soft; my body resists where it should give.
But Adrian’s fingers notch into the phantom edges of my waist, draw across the contours of my back muscles. And when he tugs the edge of my sports bra down, freeing one of my nipples from the tight fabric, he lets out a moan so guttural that I can practically feel it reverberate between my legs.
His mouth finds my nipple and his tongue flicks over the surface until it hardens. The sensation draws an involuntary sigh from my lips.
“Adrian,” I say desperately.
With his mouth still pressed to my aching skin, he pries the other side of my sports bra down, too. It’s tight, so tight that I nearly think he won’t manage it. But with a pop, both of my breasts come free—two swells rising above the line of neon blue that was once my sports bra.
Adrian pulls himself back and his eyes trace over every inch of me, working from my backside on his counter, up my exposed chest, and then settling on my eyes. His pupils are so blown out that his eyes are practically black. His teeth sink into his bottom lip.
“Tell me the places on the list,” he says.
“What?”
“Tell me.” He presses each of his hands to my waist and my heart kicks up a scattered rhythm.
He hasn’t issued a command like this since the days I was first training with him.
Back when he wrenched those dumbbells out of my hands and caged me out of the squat rack.
“Give me a list of places where I’m allowed to make you come. ”
Everything is tingling, shivers racing and melding and multiplying so fast I’m not sure I even know what a list is anymore. I’ve probably never made a single list in my whole life.
Only one word loosens from my lips. “Bed,” I say. “The bed.”
Adrian traces a finger across the skin of my collarbone, dipping until he hits the crease between my breasts, and then traveling up my throat. He anchors the finger to the edge of my lips and kisses the place it’s touching.
“And?”
His hand travels lower, this time sliding into the waistband of my pants. Everything is on fire in the wake of his touch. My hips roll against him, but he refuses to dip lower.
“A couch,” I insist. “Adrian. Maybe the couch?”
His fingers find the edge of my underwear.
Gently, slowly—far too slowly—he pulls the fabric aside and slides his finger underneath.
I let out a moan. That single touch—that mere breath of contact—it’s enough to loosen my spine.
I sink into his arms like I’m boneless, my head pressing into his bare shoulder.
“Kath,” he says gently. “Let me show you the things I can’t do to you on a bed or a couch.”
“Okay,” I manage.
“Yes?” he asks gently, finger running up and down just below my underwear so lightly it’s like I’m being tortured from the inside. “I need an enthusiastic yes.”
“Yes,” I say. “Enthusiastically.”
Adrian smiles and it’s so eager and hungry that my heart stammers again. He presses one hand to my back to lift me from the counter and draws my pants free. Goose bumps rise instantly on every inch of my now exposed skin. He slides down my body and drapes each of my knees over his shoulders.
“Okay?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say again.
Then he grabs me from behind and hitches my hips forward until I’m nearly slipping off the edge of the counter, but I can’t because my legs are anchored to his wide shoulders. He smooths a hand just below my navel, tugging upward and pulling the skin taut. Then he finds me with his mouth.
His nose nudges while his tongue swirls. My hips buck against his face and he presses a palm to my stomach, anchoring me down, so all I can do is writhe against it.
“Adrian,” I whine. I’m whining? I don’t whine. Not like this.
He laughs, and the tip of his nose dances against my nerve endings, and all I can think is that I’ve never had an orgasm with a man’s mouth on me like this.
It’s never even felt good like this. It’s always felt like something else on a checklist—one of the bases I’m supposed to cover at certain points, like making sure I get enough fiber in my breakfast. Never like I’m vibrating from the inside.