Page 67 of Cut Off
She yanks my face down to hers and devours my mouth, tongue hot and insistent, lips bruising. I barely keep upright—my knees buckle, vision sparks at the edges—all my focus goes to holding her, fucking her, keeping her right on the edge and beyond. She tastes like honey and sweat and some feral need.
She starts to shake. I can feel it, the tremor in her thighs, in the way she claws at my back and goes rigid for a split second, then comes apart around me, as loud and uninhibited as the first time. “God, Jonah,” she screams, head thrown back. Her whole body convulses, hips jerking, sheer force of her orgasm nearly knocking me off my feet.
I hold steady, keep going, push her through it, loving how she never tries to muffle herself, how she just takes and takes and demands more. My brain disintegrates. I feel every inch of her—slick, unbearably tight, shivering and clenching and dragging me along the same edge. My body is pure reaction, just instinct and muscle memory and the rush of being wanted like this, so fiercely, by someone so incredible.
I’m not quiet, either. She milks the noise out of me. When her aftershocks hit, I lose it, hips stuttering, forehead pressed to her shoulder, every single nerve ending set on fire. With a guttural groan, I come hard, harder than I have in years, my cock pulsing so hard it almost aches, and it feels like dying and living at the same time—total blackout, then blinding, breathless relief. I gasp, shuddering, and stay inside, her arms clinging to me like she’s anchoring us both.
We make this strangled, stunned sound together—equal parts laughter and disbelief. Sweat slicks both of us, messy and hot. My hands shake as I hold her face and kiss her again,softer this time, tasting the salt on her lips and the lingering smile neither of us can kill.
She leans her forehead into mine, chest heaving, lashes wet. “Jesus, Jonah. On the countertop?”
I grin, panting. “You started it.”
She snorts out a laugh. “You definitely finished it.”
We stay tangled, unmoving. My brain is a puddle. Her chest still heaves. Her thigh hooks around my hip, and there’s no air left in the room.
She’s looking at me with a dazed, satisfied smile and zero shame. Her hair is wild, lips swollen, freckles everywhere. Gorgeous. Absolutely lethal.
She laughs again and pulls me down for a gentler kiss—slow, sweet, lingering. For a second, I let myself believe this could last.
But then I remember: This is risky. This is dangerous. This could ruin everything.
And I don’t care. At least, not right now.
I help her off the counter. She’s still wobbly. Her underwear is halfway down one leg, her bra somewhere in a fruit basket. I hand her the sweater, but she just smirks, shakes her head, and struts to the fridge in nothing but her panties, grinning over her shoulder.
I toss the condom and follow, still half-hard, wanting more, every day, every night. I want this domestic chaos and the chance to wake up to her.
Which is batshit. Out of character. Not safe.
But that’s what I want.
“Still worried about the rule?” I ask. Because I’m not. The rule’s dead and buried, and I’m not sorry.
She grabs two Gatorades, tosses me one, then throws her clothes back on and sits on a stool, looking up at me.
I wanther again—every hour of every day—but she’s already got this look on her face, a shift, like there’s something else she’s bracing to say.
“You want to talk about it, or should I just make you a sandwich?” Sometimes, if I make a joke, it buys me a few more minutes before everything goes to shit.
She smiles, but it’s forced. “We should talk,” she says, and the air in the room chills.
I don’t sit. I lean against the fridge, arms crossed, waiting for the blow.
But she just levels me with those brown eyes, so steady it hurts. “I got an offer to go back to TV,” she says. “Like, a real job. In Seattle. It’s executive producer, a real budget, the whole shebang.”
She gets the words out fast, like if she sprints through them they won’t stick. But they do.
“Holy shit.” It’s out loud before I can filter it. I set my Gatorade on the counter so I don’t crush it in my hand. “That’s—wow. That’s huge.”
She shrugs, picking at the torn label on her bottle. “It is. It’s what I’ve been working for, since, well, forever. They want me to start in two weeks.”
Twelve days from now. The countdown begins in my head, a clock ticking down to zero.
I want to tell her I’m thrilled for her, that this is the best news ever, but I’m not. Not really. Selfish prick that I am, all I can think about is how empty the house will feel when she’s gone, how much harder mornings will be, how much Eli will miss her, how much I already do, and she’s still right here.
She must see the grimace on my face because she softens and scoots over, patting the stool beside her. I throw on my boxers and sit next to her, shoulder to shoulder, and try to remember how to be human.
