Chapter 6: Sick Day

The door shut, and he had me against it before the coffees hit the floor.

He'd set them down somewhere, I think.

I wasn't looking.

His hands were under my sweater, flat and hot on my ribs.

My mouth was open under his.

I was pulling at his belt.

"Slow down," he said, laughing into my neck.

"No."

"Imogen."

"I called in sick for this."

He breathed out a curse that sounded like my name.

Then he lifted me.

I locked my legs around his hips.

He carried me down my own hall.

His bad knee made him swear at the kitchen doorframe.

He set me on the kitchen counter, and the cold of the granite went through my leggings.

I yanked his shirt over his head.

He was broad and brown from the summer, with a long white scar down his left ribs where a roof had once come up to meet him.

I put my mouth on it.

He made a sound that went through my whole body.

"You're killing me," he said.

"Good."

He dragged my sweater off, then my bra, and for a second he just looked.

I should have felt shy.

I felt like I'd been waiting a year for someone to look at me like that.

"God," he said. "You have no idea."

"Show me."

He bent and took my breast into his mouth.

I arched off the counter with my fingers in his hair and my heels hooked behind his back.

His tongue circled, slow and wet, and then his teeth, light, and I cried out and didn't care who in the building heard.

"Quinn."

"Mm."

"Off. Everything. Now."

He peeled my leggings down my legs and tossed them over his shoulder, and my underwear went with them.

He stood between my knees and ran his thumbs up the insides of my thighs.

He was so hard against his jeans that I could see it.