My mouth opened and closed a couple of times without any words escaping. With a knowing smirk, Bennett turned back to his sandwich preparation.
He hadn’t bothered to put a shirt on, and his bare torso seemed to go on for miles. His skin was smooth and even, tan from running shirtless in the spring sunshine. The muscles in his arms popped and tensed as he opened the jar of mustard, pulled at the silverware drawer to retrieve a knife, opened the bag of bread. Such simple tasks, but watching him do it felt like the dirtiest and best porn. I loved his forearms, loved the dark hair, the tan skin, the carve of muscles.
God, what an asshole.
I watched his tongue slip out and wet his lips. His hair was a mess and fell heavily over his forehead. When I let my eyes slide down the length of his body, I saw the one reaction he couldn’t hide. He was still so hard his cock pressed against the low-slung waistband of his boxers.
Sweet Jesus.
I opened my mouth one more time and, without looking at me, he bent slightly to the side so his ear moved closer to my lips. A shaky exhale escaped and I squeezed my eyes shut.
“Bennett . . . ?”
“What’s that you say?” he asked. “I didn’t quite hear you.”
Swallowing, I whispered, “Please.”
“Please what?”
Please, Bennett, go fuck yourself was there, on the tip of my tongue. But who was I kidding? I wanted him to fuck me. So, I took a deep breath and admitted, “Please, Bennett, I need it.”
The crash came before I fully registered what happened: with a single sweep of his arm, Bennett had cleared the kitchen island and everything he’d taken from the fridge clattered to the floor. Glass shattered and the knife skittered across the tile and crashed into the baseboard. Bennett crushed me against him, bending to cover my mouth, force his tongue inside, and give me the satisfaction of hearing his deep, relieved groan.
It wasn’t playful anymore, it wasn’t gentle or careful. It was his arms hauling me onto the island, hands pushing me backward to lie flat on the cold marble, and hold me there with one flattened palm pressed heavily to my sternum. It was his other hand spreading my legs wide, his impatient fist pulling at his boxers. And before I could say how much I wanted it, how sorry I was for teasing—because I was, and something about seeing him so wild and primal scared me deliciously—he was easily pushing inside, so deep, and then pulling out just as fast, moving his hips in perfect, punishing stabs.
Releasing the weight of his hand from my chest, he grabbed my legs and took a step closer, pulling them over his shoulders and hitting that spot so deep that I felt the force of him reverberate up my spine. He slid his hands down to my hips, and held me in place while he fucked, head thrown back, taking his pleasure now. The island was sturdy enough to weather the force of his movements, but I reached over my head, gripping the edge so I could press myself even farther onto him. It wasn’t enough; I needed more, and deeper, and wetter, and rougher. He’d told me I couldn’t have this for days, and he knew better than anyone that his touch was the one thing—the only thing—that could keep me from disintegrating into a hurricane of stress. I needed to get him farther inside me than I ever had before, and I grew obsessed with the idea that I could, somehow.
“God, you’re fucking soaked,” he groaned, opening his eyes to look at me. “How can I keep from taking you? You’ll never know how much I need this.”