I lift my hands to his face, my fingers tunneling in his thick dark hair as I finally give myself all the way over to what’s happening here. I want my best friend, and he wants me right back. Not in a one-time hookup kind of way, but in a can’t-get-enough-of-each-other way.
Mark’s hands are on my butt, his tongue is in my mouth, and I let him lift me, wrapping my legs around his waist as he pivots us, setting me on the counter.
Something crashes to the ground—my paper towel roll holder, I think, but neither of us so much as pauses.
He peels my shirt over my head. I tear at his buttons like a madwoman, my lips greedy on his shoulders, his pecs, bending down so I can trace my tongue over the ridges of his stomach.
Mark lets out a grunt of pleasure, allowing my lips to play over his stomach, my fingers to flit over the front of his jeans before his fingers tangle in my hair, pulling my head back up for a blistering kiss.
He slips a hand around to my back, unfastening the bra with a single flick.
My bra gone, he devours my breasts, hand on one, mouth at the other, switching back and forth with relentless determination until I’m panting his name.
He kisses me again, fingers finding the button of my jeans.
“Wait,” I manage against his mouth. “My boots . . .”
He lets out a growl of frustration, then pulls back and reaches for my feet. A moment later, both boots hit the ground, my jeans and thong quickly joining them.
I let out an embarrassed giggle as I realize I’m completely naked on my own kitchen counter. “Hold up, we can’t—”
His fingers delve between my legs, middle finger circling slowly over my clit before dipping down and sinking inside me.
I tighten around his finger with a moan.
“What was that we can’t?” he asks, his mouth pausing against my breast, his fingers stilling and pulling away.
“Never mind,” I say, grabbing his wrist and pushing his hand back toward my throbbing center.
I feel him smile wickedly against my flesh before his tongue wraps around my nipple, fingers teasing, circling, spreading . . .
Mark bends down, pushing me back gently as his tongue joins his fingers between my legs, licking between my folds with soft, sinful strokes.
As with before, he has me on the edge of orgasm in an embarrassingly short amount of time, and even as my hips arch to his mouth, there’s a part of me that wants something more . . .
My turn.
I wriggle away, and he pulls back in surprise as I hop off the counter. “Is this not okay?”
“It will be,” I say, pressing a hand to his chest and slowly walking my fingers down to his jeans.
Mark gives a grunt of surprise as I lower to my knees, tugging the denim and boxers downward until I have access to him—all of him.
My lips and tongue tease, keeping my touch light and fleeting, wanting him to need it. To need me.
His head is tipped back, looking beautifully male, as my lips roam over him, until he can take no more and twines his fingers in my hair, looking down and meeting my eyes.
“Please.”
His gruff plea is perhaps one of the hottest things I’ve experienced in my life, and I give him exactly what we both want. I wrap my lips around him and suck, gently at first, then more enthusiastically as his hands urge me on.
He lets me control the situation for only a few minutes before he takes what he wants, his touch both gentle and commanding as he holds my head still, thrusting into my greedy mouth.
I look up and meet his eyes, offering, maybe even begging to stay on my knees as he goes over the edge.
He bites his lips in a delicious moment of indecision before leaning down and pulling me to my feet.
“With you,” he says against my mouth, capturing my lips in a tongue-tangling kiss.
His arm goes around my waist, lifting me so my legs wrap around his waist.
He walks me gently backward to where we started the encounter, my back to the fridge, the cold surface against my back a perfect contrast to his warmth pressed to my front.
Mark thrusts inside me. Hard. Possessive. I cry out, and he immediately gentles, but I shake my head and arch into him. More.
His hands grab my hips, my fingers dig into his shoulders, until the ecstasy finally takes me there. I go over the edge with a cry, and he goes right over with me, his own rough breathing matching mine.
Mark gathers me close to him, arms warm around my back as he helps me ease gently to my feet.
We meet each other’s gaze for a long moment, saying silently what we’re not ready to say with words: This thing between us is important, and so much more than sex.
He clears his throat and steps back, bending down to retrieve our clothes.
I reach out and touch his wrist as he steps into his boxers and reaches for his jeans.
“Do you want to . . .” I lick my lips nervously. “Stay?”
He stills. “You want me to stay over?”
“Too much?” I ask, smoothing my messy hair back. “I know your own home is just a few steps away, so maybe it’s better—”
He uses the knuckle of his forefinger to gently touch my cheek, stopping my babble. “Yeah. I’d like to stay.”
My heart squeezes with something I don’t know how to define, and I manage a smile. “You should know that your dog likes to cuddle in the middle of my bed.”
“I do know, because your dog likes to cuddle in the middle of my bed.”
As though knowing we’re talking about him, Rigby bounds into the kitchen, squeaky toy in his mouth, clearly waiting to see if it’s time to go to bed.
“Come on,” I say, nodding toward the stairs.
The dog needs no further encouragement, bounding up ahead of me and Mark.
I expect it to be awkward. Do we spoon? Does he want more sex? Is he tired and simply wants to sleep?
“I don’t have an extra toothbrush. . . .”
“I’ll live,” he says, peeling back the covers of my bed and plopping down. Rigby leaps up beside him, circling twice and then curling into a ball next to his shoulder.
I smile at the sight, realizing it’s one I could get very, very used to.
I put on pajamas, then brush my teeth and wash my face. When I come back into the bedroom, I turn out the light, expecting to crawl into the only free space, on the other side of Rigby.
But Mark’s nudged the dog over to the far side, putting himself in the middle. Wordlessly he lifts the covers, inviting me in.
I slip into his arms, and he pulls the blankets over both of us, then pulls me against him.
“I didn’t take you for a cuddler,” I whisper into the darkness.
He’s silent for a moment. “I’m not.”
I pat his forearm, which is wrapped around my waist. “Hate to be the one to tell you this, but this right here? Cuddling.”
“I meant that I’m not usually. Not before.”
“Not before . . .?”
I feel him smile against my neck, stubbornly refusing to answer. I smile, too, because I know what he’s not saying.
Not before me.
December 22, Friday Morning
The next night, when I sit at the bar at Cedar and Salt, it’s a very different situation.