Page 32 of Full Mountie

He flicks his gaze over me. To the bag. Back to my face. Then he holds out his hand—not for the bag, but for me. I seize his hand in mine and he hauls me up, right into his body. “Yeah. Okay.”

He pushes past me and unlocks the front door. The last time I was here, he pointed me into the living room and told me to sit.

Today he doesn’t say anything at all. I follow him past the living room and down a narrow central hallway into the kitchen at the back of the house. It’s newly renovated, handsome and clean. Spartan. A lot like Lachlan.

He points to the coffee machine on the counter. “You want a cup?”

“I brought some.” I set the bag on the counter and open it up. Inside are two travel mugs, a smaller bag of breakfast sandwiches, and a couple oranges.

“’Kay.” The single syllable utterance is hard to read.

“Hey, is this a problem?”

He turns and glares at me. “Would it matter if it were?”

“Well…” It depends whether or not I’d believe him for real if he said yes. Lachlan’s conservative definition of a problem doesn’t always align with mine. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

He laughs. “That’s such a fucking lie. You love it when I’m uncomfortable. You like nothing more than making me blush.”

“That’s different.” I grin at him. He’s not wrong.

He moves closer, bumping right into me. Hello. I twist, bracing my hands against the counter. He leans against me and groans. “We need to talk about how we’re going to do this. I don’t like surprises.”

“I know,” I whisper. “But I do.”

“This can’t affect work.”

“I get that.”

“I know you do. I’m just repeating the rules out loud for my benefit as much as yours.”

Rules. I love rules. I love breaking them, too, but it’s just as much fun to get super fucking creative inside the bounds he sets out.

I cup the side of his neck, my thumb sliding around the front, right above his clavicle.

He freezes.

I bump against his chest, giving him a split-second warning before I spin us around, so he’s the one pinned against the counter and I’m the one in charge of the kiss.

Because yes, we’re fucking kissing.

It’s been too long.

Ten years, then two months. Now it’s been a week and I need him.

I hold him tight as he tenses, but there’s nothing hesitant about the way his mouth opens for me. How eager his tongue is, or the moan I swallow.

He’s got a hint of regrowth that scratches at me as I kiss him, and I drag my hand up to cup his face. Granite jaw covered in scruff. Damn. I want him to leave beard burn on my thighs.

Maybe not today. Maybe when he gets back.

“I want to kiss you,” I say against his mouth.

“You are.” His lips are soft now, and as he smiles against me, I feel him slide right into this. His dick swells, pressing into me.

“I mean in general. In private, but not just one-offs. I want you.”

“I invited you in, didn’t I?” He reaches around to cup my ass, pulling our erections together. I’m wearing jeans and he’s got heavy khakis on. The thick layers of fabric add to the effort it takes to frot, and making Lachlan work for what he wants has always pleased me.

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