It was easy to tell ourselves that truth when the logical part of our brain was in charge. It was harder to believe it after a hurtful review.
Especially an important one.
We stared at each other for several long minutes. He didn’t say anything, and I didn’t either. And the longer we stayed silent, the thicker the silence became, the heavier.
Seeing him like this, realizing he had taken this review about as hard as anyone could, I just wanted to soothe the pain away. I wanted to make this better for him. I wanted to take this from him and remind him how amazing he was—how incredibly talented and innovative he was.
I had decided thirty minutes ago that I didn’t want to see him tonight. That I’d gotten too wrapped up in us, too wrapped up in him.
But looking at Killian like this, so completely at the end of himself, I realized I didn’t care about any of that. Because I cared about this man. I cared for him deeply. Somehow over the summer, he’d wormed his way into my heart and made a permanent home there.
He wasn’t Derrek. He was nothing like Derrek.
Yes, he was arrogant and bullish and demanding. But he wasn’t mean. He wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t selfish.
And yes, he was a chef. But he was also a friend. And a confidant. And a mentor. And everything I believed a good man was.
He wasn’t Derrek. And I wasn’t in danger of getting myself back into a bad relationship. Whatever this was with Killian was healthy in a way that I’d never experienced before. Healthy and hopeful and heady.
Sucking in a steadying breath, I walked over to him. His eyes tracked my every movement. The rain had soaked my coat and left my white t-shirt damp, clinging to me everywhere. I’d worn black leggings tonight instead of practical pants, and he noticed them with a searing gaze that moved over my hips and thighs with hungry interest. He took a slow sip of expensive whiskey straight from the bottle, and I watched his tanned throat work as he swallowed without flinching.
I took the bottle from him when he finished, setting it carefully on the table next to him. He relinquished it without a fight.
He sat up straighter and moved his legs together when I stepped over them, straddling him. The emailed review fluttered to the ground forgotten.
I gently placed my hands on his broad shoulders, loving the feel of muscle and bone beneath the starchy fabric of his coat. I rubbed back and forth once, twice. His lips met mine halfway when I leaned in for a kiss.
It was like we’d been doused in gasoline, and someone had thrown a lit match on us. We exploded in hunger and passion and the familiar push and pull we’d always had.
He tugged me down, settling me firmly against him, while his lips moved over mine. He nipped roughly at my bottom lip, pulling it into his mouth, sucking, biting, licking before he moved to my tongue, repeating every aggressively delicious action.
His hands gripped my waist, yanking me closer against him, fitting our bodies as tightly together as possible. The feel of him under me, my legs wrapped around his waist, my hands holding on to his shoulders for balance sent shockwaves of sensation rocking through me.
I felt him beneath me, the button to his pants through the thin material of my leggings. The hardness of the thighs I straddled. The hip bones that framed his tapered waist. And the part of him that made him oh, so very male.
My fingers curled into his shoulders at the feel of him growing hard beneath me. I rocked forward, unable to stop myself. He caught the whimper that fell out of my mouth and deepened the kiss, making the moment even more intense, more erotic.
I clung to him as he held me against him, letting me fidget and grind and work my body against his the way a man and woman should move together. His beard left an intimate burn over my chin and lips, reminding me who was kissing me—never letting me forget it. He tasted like whiskey and oranges and every hot fantasy I’d ever had.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I started pushing at his coat, needing it off him, needing to have it out of my way. He tugged his arms free, revealing those toned, tattooed arms. Once unrestricted, one of those big hands I’d been obsessed with for months slipped beneath my shirt.
We both gasped at the contact. His hand so hot against my ribcage, his palm so hard against the softness of my skin. Our mouths crashed back together, greedier than ever. He palmed my breast under my shirt, kneading until I couldn’t catch a full breath. Until I was nothing but want and need and trembling desire.
He shoved the cup of my bra to the side, and his fingers did wicked things to my nipple, pulling sounds from me I had never, ever made before. And the whole time my legs squeezed his waist while he moved against us, our clothes the worst kind of obstacle in the history of obstacles.
“Killian,” I moaned when he yanked my shirt up, exposing my soft stomach, my breasts, my peaked nipples.
He groaned deep in his throat and then captured my nipple in his mouth, licking, sucking, biting again in a way that mimicked how he kissed me but better. So. Much. Better.
“More,” I pleaded. “Please more.”
He made a very agreeable sound in the back of his throat and moved to the other breast. His talented fingers tugged my bra cup down, giving me the pleasure I was so, so desperate for.
I leaned into him, giving him as much of me as he wanted. Taking as much of him as I could get. One hand supported my back, the other played with the waistband of my leggings. His fingers dipped inside, and I shivered at the tickling sensation.
He sucked harder on my nipple, and I nearly exploded. Adjusting his grip, he leaned me back further, exposing me like his own personal feast. He kissed his way from one breast to the other, taking his time on my breastbone, then over my heart as it raced in my chest. His fingers dipped further inside my leggings, playing with the seam of my panties.
His fingers brushed over my core, separated from my most intimate part by just a thin scrap of fabric. He moved his fingers again in a way that was so perfectly timed I bucked against him.
I dug my fingers into his hair as we kissed and kissed and kissed. He moved my underwear to the side and his fingers dragged over my center deliberately slowly. My breath caught in my throat as I waited for more, barely holding onto the tether of reality.
One finger slid inside me, and I stopped kissing him. I couldn’t multitask anymore. I couldn’t even think coherent thoughts anymore. I rested my forehead against his and accepted the pleasure he was intent on giving.
He moved that one finger achingly unhurried. Deep. Deeper. Oh, God.
A second finger joined his first, and that was all it took. I held onto him as fireworks burst behind my closed eyelids. My body clenched around his fingers while my head swam in the best way, dizzy and disoriented. The orgasm burst through me, tightening every single muscle as I gasped and clung to him, unable to let go until I’d landed back on earth, fully sated.