I don't want to get out of bed. Like the couch, this bed has got to be the most comfortable mattress my body has ever had the good fortune of resting on. This is what money can buy, I muse. This is why I need to get it together and climb the corporate ladder. I want the finer things in life—on my own dime. I lay in bed, alone, replaying the events of last night. I had expected to sleep with Dylan, in all ways.

We watched some documentary on television while we ate, sipped wine that of course, went perfect with the lasagna he ordered and then talked. It was weird. He suddenly seems like a normal guy, a real gentleman. Last night could have been chalked up as a date—except we were in his house and I have no clothes.

I look at the clock and realize it is way early. I consider my options, get up and see if there is some coffee in the house—I really hope so or I will have to leave my posh prison and get some. That is non-negotiable. Or, I could lay in the pillow a.k.a my bed for the week and chill. That is actually a very appealing option.

I need coffee. Considering I have no clothes and those sweats are ridiculously big, I pull the t-shirt over my naked body and call it good. It hangs mid-thigh, making me reconsider the ugly sweats. Technically, it covers more than my dress did the other night, so why I feel a little self-conscious about it I don't know.

I pull open my bedroom door, pop my head out and listen. Absolute quiet. Good, he's still asleep. I walk bare footed down the hall and into the kitchen where the sunlight is pouring in the bank of windows on the east side. I take a moment to soak it in. It is stunning. The appliances are reflecting the sunlight, which makes me blink a few times, but as soon as my eyes adjust, I continue on my mission.

I see a Keurig and practically hoot with glee. Thank God. I can manage to put a cup in the thing and push a button. I start opening cupboards, looking for a cup. I find one and prepare to make my coffee. My eyes widen when I see the carousel filled with K-cups.

“Oh my, God,” I mutter. I am in coffee heaven. It's like having my own little Anna right in my kitchen. Every flavor of coffee imaginable is on display. My mind is reeling, trying to decide what flavor I want. I lean an elbow on the counter and spin the carousel around and around.

“Fine,” I say out loud.

I give the carousel a good spin, close my eyes and put out my finger. Whatever cup I land on I will go with. Hell, it isn't like I'm going anywhere today, I can have a second or a third cup!

With my choice made, French Vanilla, I pop it in and wait.

“Good morning,” his husky voice cuts through the sound of the machine whirring.

He's right behind me. I suddenly feel very exposed. I'm wearing only his t-shirt and nothing else and I mean nothing! I'm sure my ass is hanging out with my bent position on the counter. I quickly stand up, take a deep breath and brace myself.

I slowly turn around, only then realizing my hair is probably sticking up and out in every direction, “I, was, I was, um,” I can't speak. He is wearing nothing but a pair of boxer briefs and it is very obvious he is very happy to see me. Or maybe it's morning wood, but there is no denying it's there. His stomach—holy hell. It is like something out of the movies. He has rock hard abs. Clearly, he works out. I want to run my hands over that large expanse of tan skin. Yesterday I hadn't bothered to open his shirt. That was a mistake. I missed out on all of that.

He steps closer, closing the very small distance between us. My eyes drift up to meet his. He doesn't talk, he only stares. It is an unnerving gaze that feels like he is staring into my very soul.

“God, you're beautiful,” he mutters, grabbing my hips and yanking me forward.

My initial reaction is to laugh in his face. I have seen myself first thing in the morning, beautiful isn't a word I would ever use, but I can't laugh. His response is guttural. He isn't lying. I can tell by the look in his eyes he believes it. The thought sends a hundred vials of hot lava pouring through every vein.

He moves one hand up to my face, brushes my mussed hair away and slowly kisses my neck. I know I'm a goner. He found the spot. It's the spot that guarantees the kisser a free pass to fuck me any which way he pleases. I can't stop the moan that escapes my lips as he gently licks, kisses and then suckles the sensitive area.

His lips move up my neck to my ear where he lavishes it with the same attention he gave my neck before kissing down my jawline. By the time he reaches my lips, I'm more than ready to feel his tongue against my own.

Of course, he doesn't disappoint. Our past two makeout sessions I have always felt he was holding back. Not this time. This time he is a savage beast. The gentle kisses have turned into an intense onslaught of my mouth, to my neck and then back to my lips. His hands are running up my shirt, down my legs and covering as much ground as they will reach.

I can't keep up. I wrap my arms around his neck and hold on for dear life. I yelp when he puts his hands under my butt and lifts me. Instinctively, I wrap my legs around him.

“No panties,” he murmurs.

I shake my head to answer his question. Talking is not possible as he walks and his dick rubs against me. He deposits me on the massive center island, scoots me forward so I am right on the edge. His hands run up my sides, under the shirt and find my bare breasts. He is in a fervor and isn't gentle like last night. There is what can only be described as a snarl a second before I feel him yanking on the shirt, trying to get it over my head. I comply to his unspoken demands and lift my arms.

He takes a quick moment to look at me before running his hand between my breasts, down to my flat tummy and stopping just above the place I really want that hand.

I look at him, waiting, anticipating what he will do next. I don't wait long. He uses one hand to free himself and another to push my legs open before he pushes in. The invasion takes me by surprise. I'm so wet he glides in with no resistance. He pulls out and slams back in, the force pushing me back a couple of inches on the island.

“Stay!” he shouts, continuing to pound into me.

I scramble to do as he orders and drop back to my elbows, giving me better traction on the smooth granite counter.

“I want to fuck you long and hard,” he says, not slowing down.

I can't answer, but nod my head. I want that too, but for now, for now I need this. I need him driving into me with such force my body slides across the counter despite by best effort.

He growls, pulls me forward and grabs my hips. His fingers are pressing into my flesh to the point I know there will be bruises, but I don't care. I'm not moving away from him now. He has me in a vice.

I can feel the little spiral of ecstasy starting deep in my belly. I don't get the chance to relish in it for long, before I can demand he slow down, I am up and over the crest, tumbling down the other side of one of the best orgasms I've ever had.

He shouts something unintelligible and I can feel his body buck involuntarily against me with his own release. I pull him in close, nestling his face against my bare chest. I don't know if this is basking in the afterglow in a traditional sense, but it sure feels good.

“I'm sorry,” he mutters against my boobs.

I gently push him back, “For?”

He grins, “Fucking you on the kitchen counter. Not exactly my most suave move.”

I smile, drop my voice to a low whisper, “I liked it.”

He groans and I can feel him growing hard inside me again, before he steps away, leaving me feeling empty and very exposed.

I reach around trying to find the shirt. He picks it up off the floor and hands it to me, “Thanks,” I mutter, quickly sliding it on and jumping off the counter.

“Did you make coffee?” he asks, walking around the island to where the Keurig sat.

“Yep, do you want me to make you a cup?”

He looks at the machine, “I can have someone bring us some.”

I roll my eyes, “Or I can put a little thingie in there and you will have a cup of coffee in hand within a minute.”

He smiles, “I guess that may be a little easier.”

I grab my cup and am pleasantly surprised to discover it is just the right temperature. Note to self, push button, have a quickie and then drink coffee.

“So,” I say, sipping my coffee and leaning against the counter, “Any plans to get me some clothes? While this is a very comfortable outfit, I don't think it is conducive to us getting any real work done.”

His eyes drop to my bare feet before slowly making their way up, “I like it. In fact, I want you again,” he says in a low voice.

A jolt of electricity tickles my nerve endings. I want him again. The man is worse than crack. I'm addicted. I need an intervention.

“Don't worry,” he interrupts my thoughts. “I'll behave.”

I smile, but deep down, I'm crushed. I don't want him to behave. I want him to ravish me.