My Not-Yet Mate and the Thirty-Day Trial novel · Chapter 21 of 24

Chapter 21: The Long Night

On Monday night, day twenty-seven, I told Dena not to call me for anything short of a fire.

I locked the clinic at five.

I drove home with the windows down and the heater on, and I did not think about the offer once.

Joss was in the kitchen, setting two plates on the table.

"Three nights left," I said from the doorway.

"I know."

"I want every room in this house."

The plate in his hand stopped halfway down.

"Every one?"

"Every one. Starting with that table."

He put the plate down very carefully.

He crossed the kitchen in three steps and picked me up by the waist.

I yelped and wrapped my legs around him.

He sat me on the edge of the table, among the knives and forks and the salt.

His mouth came down on mine.

The kiss was heavy and slow, with a deep, certain hunger underneath it.

I pulled his flannel shirt off him and ran my hands over the marks on his chest.

Some had gone yellow.

Some were still dark purple.

He undid the buttons of my work shirt, and I undid his belt.

We did not talk.

He pushed my jeans and underwear down my legs, and I kicked them off one boot at a time.

Then I lay back on the table among the plates with my knees up and my heels on the edge.

The oak was cool under my back.

He moved a fork aside with his fingertips, looked at me for a long moment, and grinned.

"This is a better dinner," he said.

He gripped my thighs and drew me to the edge, and I felt the thick head of him press against me.

He slid in on one long glide.

I arched off the wood and groaned up at the ceiling.

"Oh, God, like that."

"Hold the table."

I reached over my head and gripped the far edge with both hands.

He held my hips and fucked me in a long, hard, steady rhythm that shook the plates against each other.

A glass tipped over and rolled.

Neither of us stopped to catch it.

I wrapped my legs around his waist and pulled him in on every stroke.

The table legs scraped across the linoleum a half inch at a time.

"You look so good laid out for me," he said, breathless.

"Shut up and move."

"Yes, ma'am."

He slid one thumb down to my clit and pressed.

I came fast, with my hands locked on the table's edge and a cry that rattled the cupboard doors.

He pulled out before he finished.

He was flushed and shining and shaking.

He gripped the base of his cock hard to hold himself back.

"Next room," he said, hoarse. "I'm not finishing here."

"You've been listening."

"I'm learning."

We went to the living room, naked, trailing clothes.

I pulled the pillows off the sofa and threw them on the rag rug where the candles had once stood.

"On your stomach," he said.

It was the first time he had told me to do anything in days.

I looked at him, and I lay down on my stomach on the rug.

The wool was rough against my breasts.

He slid a pillow under my hips and tilted me up, and I felt the cool air on the wet insides of my thighs.

He lay down over me, his chest warm along my back, his legs outside mine.

He put his mouth against my ear.

"I'm going to take my time," he said.

He pushed into me from behind, flat to the floor, a long slow slide.

I moaned into the rug.

In that position he went impossibly deep, and my legs were pressed together, so that I was tight around him, and every stroke dragged.

"Oh, fuck," I said. "Joss. Oh, that's..."

"Oh, God," I said. "Do it."

He did.

He moved in slow, heavy thrusts, grinding against me at the end of each.

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