17. Welcome Home
Chapter seventeen
Welcome Home
She tells me not to stop.
I kiss her again.
Annie’s hand closes on my shirt. Her other hand slides to the back of my neck, and she pulls me down with enough force to make her answer clear. She is done waiting. So am I.
The kiss is slow for about three seconds.
Then she bites my lower lip.
I move her back into the counter. She lets me, then turns us enough to put me there instead. It is a neat correction. Very Annie. She wants me, but she is not giving me the room to lead.
I take her face in both hands and kiss her until she has to breathe.
When she does, her eyes stay on mine.
The kitchen is quiet around us. Too quiet. Ellie’s notebook is still on the island, open to a page of careful instructions about lip balm. The fishing gear is on the porch. Her jacket is over the back of a chair.
Annie has been inside my daughter’s life for two days, and she did more than keep her safe.
She gave Ellie things to bring home.
That thought should slow me down.
It does not.
I kiss her again, harder this time, and Annie makes a low sound in her throat. Her fingers move from my neck to my belt, then stop there. She knows where we are. So do I.
Ellie is due back at seven.
I catch Annie’s wrist before she can open my belt. She looks at my hand, then at me.
“We’re not doing this in the kitchen,” I say.
Her breathing is fast. “You’re making rules now?”
“I’m remembering where we are.”
“That sounds like a rule.”
“That sounds like me trying to keep my head.”
She looks toward the island. The notebook. The chair. The evidence of the weekend.
When she looks back, some of the fight has left her face. The want has not.
“She won’t be back before seven,” she says.
“I know.”
“She’ll knock.”
“I know.”
Annie studies me for a few seconds. “Then what are you doing?”
“Giving this more care than we gave the supply room.”
Her hand opens under mine. I let her go.
The air changes between us, but neither of us steps away. I can still feel her through my shirt. Heat. Breath. The way she holds herself under control and makes me want to take that control apart one piece at a time.
Annie’s gaze drops to my mouth.
Then she turns and walks out of the kitchen.
I follow.
The hall is short. I keep my hands to myself, which takes more discipline than I want to admit. She does not look back until she reaches her bedroom door.
Her hand rests on the frame.
For a moment, she says nothing. I do not move around her. This is her house. Her room. Her choice.
She looks at me over her shoulder. “You coming in or conducting an inspection?”
“There’s a third option where I stand here and try to remember I’m a responsible man.”
“You’re wasting time.”
“That’s probably true.”
Her eyes move over me. “Doc.”
That is all she says.
I step into the room.
Annie closes the door behind me.
The latch catches.
She turns, back to the door, and watches me from there. Her face is flushed. Her hair is loose around her shoulders. Her shirt is crooked at one shoulder.
“This isn’t the storm,” she says. “You don’t get to blame the weather.”
“I’m not planning to.”
Her fingers move to the hem of her shirt, but she doesn’t lift it yet. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure I want you.”
Her eyes hold mine. I step close enough to touch her, then stop.
“If you want me to slow down or leave, say it.”
“I don’t.” She reaches behind her and turns the lock.
She leads me into the bedroom and backs me up until the backs of my calves hit the mattress. My breath catches as she steps into my space, closing the gap until I can feel the heat radiating off her skin.
The air in the room is still. The silence between us is thick, almost tactile.
She reaches up, her fingers grazing my collar before she starts undoing the buttons of my shirt. She doesn't rush the process, her eyes locked on mine with a deliberate intensity that feels like she's reading every nerve ending in my body.
One button pops free, then another. She peels the fabric back, sliding the shirt off my shoulders and letting it drop to the floor. I don't move; I just watch, wanting, my muscles tensing under her touch. I can feel my heart hammering against my ribs, the rhythm erratic and loud in my ears.
Her hands move to my waist. I hear the metallic click of my belt, the leather sliding through the loops with a slow rhythm that sends a shiver straight down my spine. Once the belt is gone, her palms rest flat against my abs, the warmth of her touch seeping through the fabric.
She's taking her time dismantling me, piece by piece, and the deliberation of it is almost more erotic than the touch itself.
She steps back and begins to strip. She doesn't look away from me. She lifts her top slowly, exposing the pale curve of her stomach and the underside of her breasts. The fabric slides over her head and vanishes, leaving her upper body bare.
I track the movement of her arms, the way her muscles shift under her skin, the way her nipples harden. Then the rest of her clothes, discarded one by one with a careful, methodical grace. Every movement is designed to prolong the anticipation, to stretch the moment until it's nearly unbearable.
I watch the line of her hips, the swell of her breasts, the way her skin looks in the light. And there’s no mistaking the cold, clear desire that burns between us.
Once she's completely naked, the sight of her makes my mouth go dry. She steps back toward me and reaches out, her fingers hooking into the waistband of my pants. She unzips them slowly, the sound of the teeth parting loud in the quiet room.
She pushes the denim down my legs, followed by my boxers, stripping me bare. I feel the sudden rush of air on my skin. My cock twitches, hardening instantly.
She drops to her knees with a fluid motion, her eyes never leaving mine. The angle is provocative, her breasts hanging heavy, her lips parted. I feel my cock pulse, straining toward her as she reaches out to wrap her fingers around the shaft.
Her grip is firm, certain, her skin warm against mine. She leans in, her breath hot against me, as she parts her lips and takes me into her warm, wet mouth.
The sensation is overwhelming. Her tongue swirls around the head of my cock, tasting and teasing me. She slides her lips along my length. I let out a low groan, my head tilting back as the first wave of pleasure hits me.
My hands instinctively reach down to tangle in her hair, anchoring myself to her reality as the world narrows down to her mouth engulfing my full length while her hand teases and strokes the base of my cock.
She's deliberate with every movement. She pulls back until she's barely touching me, the tip just grazing her lips, and then she slides deep again, her throat tightening around me. I close my eyes, focusing entirely on the friction of her tongue and the tight grip of her lips.
The muscles in my thighs begin to tremble. She knows exactly what she's doing, the way she varies the pressure, the way she uses her tongue to tease the most sensitive parts of the head before swallowing me whole again.
The tension in my lower back builds, a coil winding tighter and tighter, pulling me toward a ledge I'm not ready to fall off yet.
I'm close, the pressure mounting, the urge to just let go and spill into her mouth becoming almost unbearable.
Every slide of her mouth is a provocation, a slow-motion descent into total surrender.
Just as I hit the brink, just as the first spasm of release begins to stir in the base of my cock, I reach down, wrap my fingers around her upper arms and firmly pull her up.
She rises, breathless, her chest heaving. A thin string of saliva connects her lips to the head of my cock for a split second before it breaks. I just look at her, wanting her, my gaze scanning every inch of her naked form, from the flush on her cheeks to the wetness between her thighs.
I reach down and grip her waist, lifting her up in one smooth motion. She wraps her legs around my waist, her ankles locking behind my back as her wet heat presses into my abdomen, sending fresh jolts of electricity through me.
I turn around and lower her down onto the mattress. I linger for a moment, hovering over her, watching her breasts rise and fall with her quickened breath. The contrast of her creamy skin against the dark fabric of the bed is striking, and the craving I have for her feels like a physical ache.
I follow her down, my body sliding over hers. I settle between her legs, slipping the head of my cock into her folds. She moans and wraps her legs around me, pulling me in. I watch her face as I press into her, slowly, giving her time to adjust to me.
“Yes,” she groans and writhes beneath me. Her legs wrap around my waist. I thrust the last few inches completely and guide her to move. She understands without a word and I roll over, pulling her on top of me.
She's draped across me, her legs straddling my hips, arms pushing up, and she starts grinding down over me. It’s slow circles at first, then she starts to rise up, and then sink back down over me. She picks up the pace, breast bouncing as she rides me faster and faster.
Her skin slides against mine with a soft, friction-filled heat until she pushes me to the edge. I start thrusting up to meet her. I reach down and rub my thumb down hard on her clit, making her moan and squirm.
“Fuck yes. More,” she cries.
I’m almost at the edge when her orgasm rips through her. Her muscles clamp down on me so hard it yanks my climax from me. We buck and moan wildly and I’m almost convinced this will never end. Every nerve in me is a live wire.
But slowly, the spasms and shuddering begin to subside and she collapses down over me. We stay like that for a long time, limbs entwined, stripped of everything but the raw, deliberate electricity lingering in the aftermath.
I close my eyes, feeling the warmth of her skin and the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest against mine.