Brayden

I didn’t think seeing a woman at the stove could ever get me hard so fast, but I learn otherwise Wednesday morning when I find Molly in my kitchen. She’s in fuzzy socks that come up to her knees, a T-shirt that barely covers her ass, and a thong. Her hair is wet, like she just got out of the shower. My mouth goes dry, and my cock strains against my fly.

I’d blame my reaction on the fact that this is still new between us—so new that I locked us in her office yesterday and spread her out on her desk because I couldn’t wait to get home before tasting her. Or I could blame it on the fact that she left my room too soon again last night, that she still insists on waking up in her own bed in case Noah wakes before her. But the truth is I could have a month alone with her and never get enough.

Only when she shakes her ass to a song I can’t hear do I realize she’s wearing earbuds. I let myself stand there while she cooks her eggs, watching her dance from side to side, my thoughts torn between how much I want to touch her and how much I want . . . more. This. Her in my kitchen, in my shower, in my bed. Not just for now, and not just for sex.

But she’s made it clear what she can offer and what she can’t. I have to respect that, even if I don’t like it. And that means I can touch her, taste her, take her to my bed and try not to hope for more, or I can take nothing at all . . . and still never know what it’s like to wake up with her in my arms.

She must catch sight of me from the corner of her eye, because she startles and turns from her pan. “Oh, hey! I thought you had a meeting with an investor this morning.”

I tuck my hands into my pockets. She switches off the stove and slides her eggs onto a plate. “It was canceled. Cute outfit.”

She snorts. “My dress is in the dryer. I’m not planning on going to the banquet center like this. I promise.”

“That’s a shame.”

She throws me a grin over her shoulder, completely unselfconscious about her clothes. Or lack thereof. “Want to have breakfast with me? I actually had my shit together this morning and ran on the treadmill right after dropping Noah at school. Now I can enjoy the rest of my morning instead of wasting it dreading exercise.”

I laugh. “The guys asked after you at the gym.”

She wrinkles her nose. “I’ll come back after I get a full night’s sleep.”

I smirk. “I have no intention of letting that happen anytime soon.”

She blushes. “Are you hungry?”

So hungry, but not for breakfast. “I already ate.” I stalk toward her. I’ve watched long enough. Now I want to touch.

She braces her hands on the counter, her back to me as she watches the toaster. When I come up behind her, she stills and closes her eyes. I stop before our bodies touch, but I’m close enough that the smell of her strawberry shampoo fills my nose.

“I was hoping you’d be home,” I admit, my voice rough as my hands drift to rest on her hips, on the satin strips of fabric over each one. “Noah’s at school?”

She arches into me in invitation. “Yes.”

“I threw the bolt on the front door in case we get any unexpected visitors.” Sweeping her wet hair to the side, I press a kiss to the crook of her neck. She shivers as my fingertips skim her bare hips then circle around to sneak under her T-shirt and over her navel. Her eyes float closed, and she leans her head back against my shoulder, submitting to my touch and asking for more. “Too bad I didn’t make it home sooner,” I whisper into her ear. I inch my hands up and cup her breasts, growling in the back of my throat when I realize she’s not wearing a bra. Her nipples are hard, and I roll them under my palms. “I think I’d have enjoyed meeting you in the shower.”

She hums in approval, then circles her hips and rubs her ass against my cock. “What on earth would you have done with me in the shower?”

“Should I demonstrate?” I drop to my knees behind her and nip at the rounded cheek of her ass. She hisses out a curse, and I cup her between her legs, slipping forward to stroke her clit as I mark a path across her backside, nibbling and sucking across her lower back and over each hip.

Gasping, she rocks into my hand and grips the counter. “Brayden . . .”

She whimpers as I withdraw my hand, but wiggles to help me when I peel her panties down her legs. I grip her hips and pull her back, bending her at the hips to give my mouth better access to her sweet center. I dart out my tongue and stroke her. I revel in her gasps, the way she shifts into my mouth, unashamed to let me please her.

I love the taste of her. The sounds she makes. The feel of her skin under my roaming hands. I keep one hand on her clit and slide the other up her shirt again, rolling her nipple between two fingers until she cries out, arching her back and giving my mouth a better angle.

“Please,” she gasps. “Brayden, please.” She reaches behind her and tugs on my hair to pull me up.

I’m mindless as I obey her command. Standing, I unbuckle my jeans and shove them down my hips with my boxers. I grip her hips and drive into her, watching the way her arms brace against the counter and her back arches, listening to the desperate noises slipping from her throat.

When she looks over her shoulder, her blue eyes blaze as they meet mine, and pleasure is written all over her face. I wrap my arm around her waist to stroke her, and she clenches so tightly around my cock that I could come apart right there. I slow my thrusts, teasing her by nearly pulling out before driving deep again.

Her knuckles whiten where she grips the counter, and I draw tiny circles across her clit until she bucks in unbridled pleasure, crying out as her release rips through her. She reaches behind my neck and leans against me as I come.

Afterward, I run kisses down her neck and across her shoulder blades. We’re half-dressed in the middle of my kitchen, and my chest is tight with tenderness I know she doesn’t want to see, and my heart is clogged with words I know she doesn’t want to hear.

Love. Somehow it’s there, whether we’re prepared for it or not. It grows whether it’s wanted or not.

Molly

Brayden scoops me into his arms, and I yelp. He grins down at me and carries me to his bedroom, laying me out on his big bed. His eyes burn into me with so much lust that it’s like we didn’t just have sex. He looks at me like he’s starved. Like he hasn’t touched anyone in centuries and is desperate for the feel and taste of skin. My skin. My touch.

Five minutes ago, I was convinced he couldn’t possibly wring another ounce of pleasure from my body, but now it flicks back to life one cell at a time under the heat of his gaze. I hold out a hand. “Are you going to get in bed with me or just stand there?”

He grins again. “I intend to spend most of my morning in bed with you.” He pinches my ass hard enough to make me yelp. “But not yet. I’ll be right back.”

I watch him, my gaze on the way his unbuttoned jeans fall low on his hips. He disappears down the hallway. I let my eyes float closed and nestle deeper into his blankets.

I don’t know how much time has passed when I wake up to the smell of coffee and the sound of silverware clanking on a plate. I force my eyes open and see a steaming plate of eggs and toast as Brayden sets it on his bedside table.

“Fresh breakfast,” he says, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “Since the one you made went cold, thanks to me.”

I smirk. “I didn’t mind.” I sit up in bed and take the coffee in my hands, inhaling deeply before taking a sip. “God, this is good.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

“So why did the investor cancel your meeting?”

“He didn’t.”

I frown. “But you said—”

“I canceled it.”

“You canceled a meeting? You, Brayden?” I do my best to keep my jaw hinged. “Why?”

His nostrils flare, and his eyes darken. “Because I can’t stop thinking about how it feels to be inside you. Or the sounds you make when you come.”

My thighs clench, and heat pools in my belly and tugs lower, begging for a repeat performance of the magic show he worked on my body in the kitchen. I lick my lips and give him my best sultry grin. “Who would’ve guessed that quiet, all-business Brayden Jackson has such a dirty mouth?”

He arches a brow. “I don’t remember you complaining about my mouth yesterday.”

A shiver races through me at the reminder of being propped on my desk, the sight of him lowering to his knees as he shoved my skirt up my hips and—as he promised that day in the pantry—kissing me through the lace of my panties until I was screaming his name. “Who said I was complaining?”

He smirks and opens his mouth to say something, but his phone rings from the bedside table. He closes his eyes and buries his face between my breasts. “Ignore it.”

I grab it. “No. I won’t be responsible for turning you into a delinquent.” My grin falls away when I see the name on the screen. “It’s Sara Jeffers.”

He stiffens. “Just let it go to voicemail.”

I should shove the phone in his hands and encourage him to take the call. Instead, I put it down on the bedside table and slip from his grasp to climb out of bed. “I need to get ready for work.”

“Molly?”

“What?” I keep my face blank as I turn back to him.

“I don’t know why she’s calling.”

I shrug. “It’s fine.”

The look in his eyes says he knows it’s not fine at all, but he lets me walk out of his room, and the entire time I’m dressing for work, I’m thinking of our conversation Monday night.

He loved Sara because she wanted the same things he did—a family and kids. A future.

There’s no doubt in my mind that he wants those things now. So why is he wasting time with me when I can’t offer any of that?