“Christ Simon, what brought this—oh!”

I lost my train of thought as his open mouth pressed against me, his tongue strong and searching. With one lick, I was close. With a second lick, I was close to stupid.

With the third . . . Here’s the funny thing about my orgasm. Once I got out of my own way, she was happy to come. Ahem.

“Oh God, you . . . that’s . . . so . . . wow . . . mmm,” I moaned. He moved, I moved. He pulsed, I twitched. He plunged, I . . . Oh, hell. I flailed.

“Responsive, aren’t you?” he murmured, raising his head and wickedly licking his lips. I threaded my hands through his hair and not so gently pushed him back down.

“If you stop now I’ll kill you with this egg timer,” I managed, grabbing for the only thing that was nearby. Which I dropped as soon as he returned to me, my breathing fast and impossible to control. I dug my heels into his back, shamelessly flexing my hips to bring him closer to where I needed him. Giving a long lick to the inside of each of my thighs, he splayed his hands under and around my hips, holding me still as best he could and opening me further to him.

“Like I could stop? Don’t you know I dream about this when I’m away?” he asked, nudging me with his nose, exactly where I needed his mouth to be.

“You . . . dream about . . . this?” I asked, arching my back. I was so close, so very close.

“Fuck, yes, are you kidding?” He flattened his tongue and dragged it across my entire sex, dipping inside and continuing up, closing his mouth now and encircling me with his lips. Releasing me with a groan of his own, he brought one hand down, using his fingers to press into me. “I think about this, and the sounds you make when you come, the way you taste. Mmm . . . sweet Caroline, you drive me crazy.”

His words swirled my thoughts. I leaned up on my elbows, skin on fire, my fuzzy gaze on this gorgeous man, this shockingly gorgeous man, with his mouth on me. Riding his hand, my hips undulated as his tongue and lips consumed me. His eyes burning into mine, I gasped when my orgasm hit me like a freight train. Shaking, I fell back onto the counter.

He stood, one hand continuing to caress my skin as I shuddered, the other pushing his pajama bottoms down. He ran his fist up and down his length, then pressed inside me, but just barely. His head dropped back as he wrapped his hands around my hips, using my weight as leverage as he slowly . . . sank . . . inside.

He was perfectly still.

I was perfectly not.

I simply couldn’t be. It was too much; he was too much. I would never get used to the feeling of him inside me, stretching me and filling me and being perfectly there. I thrashed, I shimmied, I arched and I flexed. And he stayed perfectly still. The muscles in his arms bunched, his neck corded, his torso gleamed with the sweet strain of not moving. He was like a naughty work of art.

Then he lifted his head and opened his eyes. Singularly focused, dark, and of one mind-set.

Simon was about to f**k.

Pulling out almost entirely, he thrust low. And hard. And serious.

And I came out of my skin.

He rode me, rode my body and my sex, and when he leaned heavy over me and chanted the dirtiest words imaginable in my ear, I came again. Right as he came. Low. And hard. And so serious.

Wrapping my arms around him, I kept him inside as long as I could. Even when he lifted me off the counter I fought that loss, keeping my legs around his waist as he laughed. He unraveled me, threw me over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and slapped my bottom.

He then ate an entire loaf of zucchini bread with his pants around his ankles while he leaned on the counter, resting his head on my bottom.

• • •

“So remind me to never stop baking for you,” I said fifteen minutes later, when I was finally allowed to put my pants back on and start cleaning up the kitchen.

“Would that ever happen?” Simon looked stricken. At the thought that I might stop baking, or perhaps because he’d just eaten an entire loaf of bread?

“Doubtful. It’s a mutually beneficial kind of thing, obviously.”

“I should say.” He smirked as I poured him some coffee and marched him over to the sofa. “Why am I on the couch?”

“Because I’m cleaning and you’re in the way. Plus you just got back, so let me fawn over you a little.”

“But mainly because I was in the way, right?”

“Right.” I grabbed a broom and swept up some raisins. Clive had spirited a few away already; I imagined I’d find those in bed later tonight. He loved to hide them one by one. I’d stopped asking questions.

Simon relaxed on the couch, watching me sweep and commenting when my backside looked particularly fetching. Looking over the rim of his coffee cup, he asked, “Hey, what were you doing sketching on a Saturday? You gotta work today?”

“Kinda sorta.”

“Kinda sorta?”

“Yeah, a big job that Jillian put me on. We’re bidding on it next week, and if I get this job it’ll mean . . . Well, it’d be a big deal.” I hesitated, not even wanting to say it out loud. This would be big giant balls big.

“That’s great! What kind of job?”

“A hotel in Sausalito. Jillian’s given me the lead on it, due to the wedding and her honeymoon. So yeah, big week at work.” I finished the sweeping and threw the raisins into the trash. Grabbing my sketchbook, I headed into the living room and sat next to him, propping my feet in his lap.

“Sounds big. That’s good, babe.”

“Plus, I’m kind of taking over while they’re on their honeymoon. I’m gonna be swamped.”

“You can handle it. I’m proud of you.”

“Well, be proud of me if I get the job. Till then it’s just a bid. But fingers crossed, right?” I laughed, lying back against the cushions as he rubbed my heel.

“I have a good feeling about this. Maybe we’ll have something to celebrate next week,” he said, wiggling my big toe. “Speaking of celebrations, how’d you like to come to Rio with me this December?”

Whuh?

I say again, whuh?

“I love when you drop your consonants,” he murmured, scooting closer and leaning over me.

“I said that out loud?”

“You sure did.”

“Okay. Well, then, answer my whuh.”

“No one on the planet has ever said that exact sentence before.” He chuckled, drawing a line with his fingertip down my nose and pressing it against my mouth.

“Rio? In December?” I mumbled.