Sammie #2
He laughs, a short breath against my throat, and then his mouth is there, open and hot, and my head falls back and hits the cabinet behind me and I don't even care.
His hand moves up my thigh, so slow I could scream, and when he reaches the edge of my sweatshirt, he doesn't hesitate.
He pushes it up and his palm flattens against my stomach as I suck in a breath because his hand is warm and rough and exactly what I need.
"Off," I say, tugging at his pants.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark and blown wide, and then he grips the hem of the sweatshirt I’m wearing and pulls it over my head in one motion.
The kitchen air is cool on my skin and I realize I'm sitting on his counter in just my leggings and I should feel exposed but I don't. I feel seen.
He looks at me like I'm something he's been waiting for, and the hunger in his face makes me brave.
His jaw tightens. He doesn't look away. He looks at me like he's memorizing every part of me, and then his hands are on my waist and he's pulling me to the edge of the counter so I'm pressed right against him. I can feel how much he wants me through the thin fabric of his sleep pants.
"Eduard," I whisper, and it comes out like a plea.
He kisses me again, deeper, messier, his hands moving to my breasts.
He brushes his thumbs over my nipples and I arch into him because I can't help it.
It feels like every nerve ending in my body has been waiting for this exact touch.
I rake my hands down his chest, feeling the hard muscle, the faint scars, and then I push his pants down and he kicks them off. The sight of him makes my mouth go dry.
He's beautiful. I knew he would be. But knowing and seeing are different things. He's all lean power and scarred skin and a trail of dark hair leading down from his navel and I want to follow it with my mouth. I lean forward to do exactly that but he stops me with a hand on my shoulder.
"Not yet," he says, and his voice is gravel. "If you put your mouth on me right now this will be over before it starts."
I look up at him through my lashes. "That confident in my skills?"
"That desperate for you," he corrects, and the honesty in it steals my breath.
He hooks his fingers in the waistband of my leggings and I lift my hips so he can pull them down, taking my underwear with them.
The marble is cold against my bare skin pulling a small gasp from me that he catches with his mouth.
He kisses me like he's trying to warm me from the inside out.
When his hand slides between my thighs I stop thinking entirely.
His fingers find me wet and ready and he groans against my neck.
"Please," I say, because I can't wait. I don't want to wait. I've been waiting my whole life for someone to look at me the way he does, like I'm not too much or too loud or too soft, like I'm exactly right. "Please, Eduard. I need you inside me."
He makes a noise like something breaks in him and he's back between my legs, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to leave marks as he looks at me one more time.
"You're sure," he says, gripping his cock and pressing it against my center. It's not a question. It's a checkpoint.
"I'm sure," I say, and I wrap my legs around his waist to prove it.
He pushes into me slowly. Slow enough for me to feel every inch of him.
My head falls back and my mouth opens, but no sound comes out because it's too much.
It's exactly enough. It's everything. He fills me completely and we both freeze for a second, breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, and I can feel his heart hammering against my chest.
"Okay?" he asks, and the word is strangled.
"More than okay," I breathe. "I’ve never felt so full."
He pulls back and thrusts in, the counter edge digs into my thighs but I don't care.
I want the pressure; I want the proof. He sets a rhythm that's steady and deep and his thumb finds the place where we're joined and presses.
I cry out, loud enough that I'm glad we're thirty-two floors up with no neighbors close enough to hear.
"Like that," I gasp, gripping the edge of the counter to stop from falling from it. "Just like that. Don't stop."
"I couldn't stop," he grits out, and his hips snap harder. "Not if I wanted to. Not with you."
His other hand slides up my spine and cups the back of my neck and he holds me there, held in place by his body and his hands and his eyes, and the intimacy of it is almost too much.
He's not just having sex with me. He's claiming me, marking me, making sure I know exactly who I belong to in this moment.
The pressure builds fast, too fast, spiraling tight and hot in my belly.
I didn't think it would happen this quickly but he's touching me exactly right, angling his hips so he hits a spot inside me that makes my vision blur, and I'm making sounds I didn't know I could make, broken and needy and his.
"I can’t wait to make you come on my cock," he says against my ear, and his voice is pure worship wrapped in desperation. "I can’t wait to feel you, Sammie…Feel you milk me dry."
I shatter around him, my body tightening and pulsing around him.
I bury my face in his shoulder and scream his name into his skin.
He keeps moving through it, drawing it out, and then he's following me over the edge with a long, low groan that sounds like my name and a curse and a prayer all at once.
When his hips stop stuttering, I notice we’re both shaking. His weight presses me back against the cabinets, my legs still locked around him. The kitchen smells like coffee and sex and the faint woodsmoke scent of his skin, and I don't think I've ever been this satisfied in my entire life.
He presses a kiss to my temple, my cheek, the corner of my mouth, soft now, almost reverent. "Are you alright?" he asks, and his thumb brushes over my hip where his fingers left faint bruises.
I look at him, at this terrifying, beautiful man who is currently breathing hard inside my arms, and I smile. "I'm perfect," I tell him. "You're going to have to work a lot harder than that to ruin me, Mr. Grumpy."
He laughs, a real laugh, and it transforms his whole face. "Challenge accepted," he says.