9. Adam
Nine
Adam
Lisa watches me set the towel down like it’s a starter pistol.
Aye, love.
I take a step forward. Her breath catches. The cat lifts its head, takes one look at the room, and jumps off her lap…fast, the damn thing knows when to leave…and trots out the kitchen doorway with its tail high in the air. Even the bloody cat reads the room.
I take another step. She doesn’t move, doesn’t stand. Does not retreat. She just sits there with both hands on her mug, her brown eyes on me, her chest rising and falling, and Christ, Christ, I have not even put a hand on her yet, and she is already coming apart.
I’ve spent hours in this kitchen this morning making breakfast and arrangements, taking care of my girls.
Being good. Being steady. Being the kind of man a woman can look at across a breakfast table and not be afraid of.
I have run an entire morning in this room with a cock that has not gone fully soft since I woke up. And I am done.
I didn’t let myself have her last night.
I wasn’t gonna push her past something her head wasn’t ready for.
I gave her that. I gave her my mouth between her lush thighs against the wall, my arms round her soft, warm body in bed, and time.
I gave it freely because I am a Maksimov man, and Maksimov men know how to wait when the waiting is for HER.
But now it’s killing me.
I take the third step. And now I’m at the table.
I put both palms flat on the counter and lean in.
Slow. Slow as I can. I’m close enough to smell her…
vanilla, warm skin, and a bit of coffee on her breath.
Close enough to see the small mark I left on her collarbone, to see her pulse jumping in her throat. But I don’t touch her. Not yet.
I just look at her. And I keep looking until she breathes in, sharp.
“Adam…”
“Mm.”
“…”
“Aye, love?”
She has nothing. She lost her words. Her hand on the mug is gripping it so tight I can see her knuckles stretch the skin. Her other hand is curled around the edge of the counter, like she needs the anchor to hold herself upright.
I lean in another inch.
“Did ye sleep all right, lass?”
“…”
“Mm.” My voice has gone all the way low. “Look at ye. Cannae even answer me.” I grin like the motherfucker I am.
She makes a sound. Quiet. The sound a woman makes when she’s been pretending all morning she did not get eaten against a wall the night before and the man who ate her is now leaning over her kitchen table.
I want to put my mouth on the pulse in her throat. I do not. Not yet.
I lift one hand off the table, bring it to her face, run my knuckles down her cheek…and her eyes close. Her head turns into my hand like a fucking pet that has been starved for its master’s touch.
Christ, woman.
I drag my thumb along her full bottom lip, and she parts her mouth for it.
And that’s it. That’s the end of my restraint. That’s the straw that just snapped the back of a Scottish camel. I take the mug out of her hand and set it on the table, take Lisa by both wrists and I pull her out of the chair.
The chair scrapes, and she’s on her feet. Her chest pressed to mine, our thighs touching, breathing like she’s been running.
I tilt her face up with one finger under her chin and look at her.
My voice is nothing but feral hunger. “I’m about to put ye on this counter.”
A small sound escapes from the back of her throat, and she nods.
“Aye.” Something dark and pleased moves through my chest. “Good lass.”
I pick her up.