Page 23 of Atlas
“I already do,” she breathes.
I close the distance and kiss her, slow at first, then deeper. All heat and heartbreak and every unsaid thing that’s been building between us for months.
She grabs my shirt. I lift her onto the counter without breaking contact. Her legs wrap around my waist like they remember every second we ever spent in the dark.
She tugs at my shirt, and I make quick work of ripping it over my head and discarding it to the floor. “I should shower,” I murmur between desperate kisses.
She shakes her head, tugging her own shirt off as her kisses work along my jaw. She lifts slightly, allowing me to remove her joggers, and then I loosen my belt before she takes over, fisting my cock. “Shit, I’ve missed this,” she breathes, pumping her hand slow.
She lines me up to her entrance, bracing her hands back on the counter as I thrust into her, savouring the feel of her tightening around me. I pause, gathering myself. “I need this all the time,” I mutter, gently tilting her head back so we’re eye to eye. “All. The. Time.”
“Just fuck me,” she pants, wriggling against me.
I hiss, unable to control myself as I grip her hips and fuck her. Hard and fast. Exactly how she likes it.
She comes, crying against my chest as her body shudders involuntarily. It’s seconds before I follow her over the edge, filling her. I thrust one last time and still, resting my forehead against her shoulder whilst we both catch our breath.
She’s still trembling, arms around my neck, breath hot against my throat. Her skin smells like sweat and something sweeter, something that’shers. I brush her hair back, press a kiss to her temple, and let myself believe for one stupid second that this is what normal could feel like.
“I should clean up,” she murmurs after a moment, voice hoarse.
I nod, slipping out of her. “You want me to run you a bath?”
Her eyes flick to mine, surprised, like the idea of someone looking after her short-circuits something in her brain. “No. I’ll just jump in the shower.”
She slides off the counter, legs shaky, grabbing her shirt from the floor and disappearing into the bathroom.
I breathe in, out. Heart still thudding. I rest my hands on the counter where her body just was, trying to ground myself. Trying not to think about what the hell this means, or if she’ll even let it mean something tomorrow.
The door buzzer sounds, and I frown, wondering who would be calling after seven. I pace to the intercom screen. The guy looking around, waiting, looks damn near picture perfect, like a preppy dream straight out of a romance novel. Smart suit. Hair that probably hasn’t moved all day. And in his hand is a bouquet of pale pink roses, the kind florists charge triple for just because they’reimported.
I stare at the screen. My pulse kicks up for a whole different reason now.
Another buzz.
I glance back towards the bathroom. The shower is still running, meaning she hasn’t heard.
He buzzes again, insistent now.
I hit the button.
“Yeah?”
He straightens, clearly not expectingmeto answer. “Um, sorry, I must have the wrong apartment. I’m looking for Anita?”
“She’s busy,” I say, my voice low and flat.
“I’m sorry, who is this?”
I grin, even though he can’t see it. “The guy she was underneath five minutes ago.”
Silence.
Then, a clipped, “Tell her I dropped by.”
“Will do.”
I end the call.
