Corinne is still talking, idle chatter. “I swear we had so much rain last night. Hank, you better check the basement. You know how that back stairwell tends to flood.”

“Mmm,” Hank says. Translation: I checked it. Everything is fine, but I want to eat without you pestering me.

Corinne’s answering “hmmm” basically means she’s on to him and will check the basement herself once breakfast is over.

I smile around a mouthful of bacon. A nudge of John’s shoulder against mine has me glancing over. He quirks a brow, his eyes darting between Hank and Corinne. He’s noticed their interplay, and like me, he finds it sweet. I have the overwhelming urge to laugh, not at Corinne and Hank, but out of this weird, dizzying sense of levity. Of quiet happiness.

I duck my head, letting my hair slide over my warm cheeks to hide my face.

John’s thumb strokes my palm, the blunt tip slowly circling a certain spot that makes my thighs clench. Just from that. We really need to get out of here.

“I hate to eat and run …” A snort from Hank cuts me off. I purse my lips. “But Stevens, the cat I’m looking after, will need to eat.”

I send a silent apology out to Brenna—who I know John asked to feed the pets this morning—and then flick John’s knee when he makes a small gurgle at the back of his throat, trying to swallow down a laugh.

Corinne smiles wide. “Of course, honey. I’m so glad we could spend a little time together.”

I feel like crap now. But when she pulls me into a hug at the door, she murmurs in my ear. “If I were young and free and had access to a tall glass of milk like your man there, I’d be twitching in my seat too.”

A startled laugh escapes me. “Love you, Corinne.”

“And you are loved, baby girl. Remember that.”

Despite his grumpiness, Hank gives John a hearty handshake and an open invitation to visit again. Then we are free. I nearly run to the motorcycle. Not at all dignified. But since John is at my heels, ushering me along with a hand to my lower back, I’m guessing we’re in the same horny boat.

His expression is almost grim as he clicks the clasp on my helmet. “Quick warning.” He gives me a pained smile. “I might cry if there’s a lot of traffic.”

“Just get us home,” I say, grasping his wrist.

He nods, grim again.

It’s impressive the way he handles the bike. I never feel unsafe as he weaves through traffic at an efficient rate. Even so, it seems to take forever to get home. If I thought an easy ride through the country was difficult, it pales to clinging onto his lean body now with this energy humming between us, when clenching my thighs around his simply brings attention to what we left undone.

You’d think a massive, mind-blowing, late-night orgasm would take the edge off, but sex doesn’t work that way. A little bit of sex is a whole lot of tease. It’s like getting only a spoonful of mint chocolate chip and being unable to reach the rest in the bowl right in front of you.

I want it all. Now.

Damn it all, does the bike have to vibrate so damn much? Freaking torture device from hell.

When John finally pulls up in front of our building—and forget all the bad things I said about the bike because it fits in a tiny space—we’re both scrambling off, uncoordinated and unsteady on our feet. John tears off his gloves and helmet as I deal with mine. Then he’s grabbing my hand and hustling us up the front stairs.

“Inside,” he says under his breath. “Make it inside.” I don’t know whether he’s talking to me or himself, but I’m not wasting time to ask.

When we get inside, however, we keep calm. Except for holding hands, we don’t touch while we wait for the elevator. Standing perfectly still, not saying a word, I listen to the slow grind of the elevator moving down the shaft. Each muted ding announcing a floor plucks along my skin. His hand squeezes mine, our fingers threaded so tightly, I can feel his pulse.

Just a little longer. Just a little …

I bite my lip as the doors finally open. Inside the elevator, John hits the button for our floor, then his hands find my hips, and he shifts me in front of him. The move is firm, proprietary, but also tender, as though touching me is something that should be done with care. It is that combination of greedy yet patient that hitches my breath.

His cheek brushes my temple as he leans down. “I’m shaking inside,” he says with a helpless laugh. “Shaking like a fucking leaf in the breeze.”

I know exactly how he feels. The elevator is rising, but I’m the one floating, my head light. My hands snake under his shirt to hook the waistband of his jeans, tug his hips against mine. John grunts low in his throat. He’s already hard. For a moment, we simply grind against each other, then his hand eases between us. He finds the button of my jeans and gives it a tug. My inner thighs clench when he slowly lowers my zipper, the buzz of sound overloud in the little elevator.

“I can’t wait,” he says. Explanation or statement, I don’t know. His hand slides over my belly, under my panties. My thighs part to give him room. He finds my clit with unerring precision. The calloused tip of his talented finger gently circles that slick swell, and I go weak at the knees. My forehead rests on his shoulder as I whimper.

His finger slides down just a little to caress my opening. “I want in here so badly, Stells.” He doesn’t push in, but simply strokes, a light torture that has me rocking my hips in desperation.

“John …” I want it to be a demand, but it comes out a thready plea.

The elevator stops with a thud. John’s hand leaves me, and I’m all too aware of how wet I am, cold now without his touch. He tugs me into the hall, all jerky movements and uncoordinated steps. John punches in the code to his door like he’s trying to break through the panel. It clicks, and then we’re practically falling into the cool quiet of his front hall.

There is no more talking, no more waiting. We’re kissing each other, and it isn’t demanding or frantic; it’s consuming, a fall right into the deep end of the ocean. John comes after my mouth like it’s his right, his pleasure. I’ve never been kissed this way. I am the banquet and he is the hunger.

I know we’re moving—kissing, soaking each other in, clothes quietly coming off and left where they lie—but my senses are solely on him, the feel of his lips, the tart taste of his tongue. He is soft skin and hard muscle, his grip firm as he guides me along, claiming my mouth, drawing me into his room.

It’s a dark cave—black walls, heavy drapes, the only light coming in through the massive grid windows at the far wall. He pulls me right into that light. The heat of it on my skin is almost too much.

I’m burning now, inside and out, incandescent with lust for this man standing before me. This beautiful man. He’s built in perfect proportions: wide shoulders, strong arms, hard abs. Unbuttoned jeans hang low on his trim hips, revealing the edge of his boxers and a wispy trail of dark hair.

Never in my life have I wanted someone this way. I want to do things to him, bite the tawny nubs of his nipples, suck the sensitive skin on his neck. But I’m rendered immobile by his gaze, absorbed and intense, tender and covetous.

With the backs of his fingers, he traces a path along my spine. When he hits the clasp of my bra, he pauses. “I want to see you.”

See me, he does. I’m utterly exposed, standing in my bra and panties, the rest of my clothes lost somewhere along the way. I’m not embarrassed; I want to be naked with him. Naked and sweaty. But I know what he’s used to, and I’m not made that way.