Page 66 of Cut Off
It turns into a standoff.
I could wait here forever, but I don’t have to, because she finally closes the gap. Her mouth crashes into mine all at once—no hesitation, no slow build, just pure, starving need.
It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet.
Her fingers are in my hair, yanking me closer. My hands brace her hips, and I pull her flush against me, lifting her off her feet so her toes leave the floor. She doesn’t even pretend to play it cool—she’s all in, biting at my lower lip, fighting to win.
My pulse is a drum in my ears. Her sweater bunches in my fists. The floral scent of her skin mixes with the burn of want. It’s chaos, it’s combustion, and I never want it to stop.
We break apart only because we have to breathe. She’s panting, red-mouthed. She runs her hands down my chest, curling the hem of my shirt in her fingers, and looks up at me like she’s daring me to stop this, to walk away.
This time? Not a fucking chance.
No more talking. No more thinking. Fuck the rules. I lean in and kiss her again. Fast, fierce, no patience for anything gentle.
She kisses back—mouth hot, open, hungry. I groan against her lips, heat flooding through me, and slip my hand under her sweater, palm sliding up her bare spine.
Every inch of her is electric. Her skin is fever-warm, and those freckles? I plan to count each of them with my tongue.
Her teeth nips at my lower lip. The counter digs into my thigh. I fucking love it.
I wrench her sweater up and over her head. She shakes out of it, hair flying, cheeks flushed, the strap of her bra slipping down her arm. It’s blue, lacy, and her breasts—Jesus.
“You’re so beautiful,” I murmur, dragging my mouth along her collarbone, nibbling, then moving lower, kissing the curve of her breast until I can tug the cup aside and take her nipple into my mouth.
She arches into me, breathing sharp, and grabs the back of my head, holding me there. I swirl my tongue over the tip, then suck—slow, steady, building the tension until she moans and clutches my shoulders, legs wrapping around my hips.
Her bra is off, and I work her other breast with my hand, pinching and rolling the nipple between my fingers, just to see if she’ll cry out. She does. Jesus, does she ever.
Her breath comes out in ragged bursts, her hips grinding into mine, voice gone thin and desperate. “Jonah, just—”
I don’t wait. I slide off her jeans and panties and lift her on the countertop, and she wraps her legs around me, leaving her wide open for me as I slide my fingers down her stomach, then inside her. She’s already wet—slick, hot, pulsing with want. I stroke her clit, slow, keeping my mouth on her breast, sucking and licking while my fingers work her open.
She shudders, hips bucking. “God, right there, don’t stop—”
I add a second finger inside her, curling and stroking, my thumb circling her clit until she’s shaking all over, sweating, gasping out curses and my name in turns. I keep the rhythm steady, relentless. She’s gripping the edge of the counter so tight I’m amazed it doesn’t snap off.
She comes with a sharp, ragged cry, thighs clamped around my wrist, body arching high. I don’t let up, working her through it until she sags, boneless, panting.
If she killed me, I’d say thank you.
I give her a heartbeat, maybe two, before I step back to get the condom from my wallet. I strip off my shirt and jeans in record time. Her eyes go wide as she takes in the full view—no shame, no hesitation—and the way she bites her lip nearly undoes me.
I roll on the condom, step back between her knees, hook her feet over my shoulders, and line up.
I push in, slow, inch by inch. “God, you feel so damn amazing,” I say, a groan slipping out of me.
Her mouth falls open—pure shock, the best kind. When I bottom out, her head tips back, hair spilling down her back, and her arms cling around my neck like she’s never letting go.
I hold myself there, pressed deep inside her, both of us panting. It’s so fucking intense.
I want to remember every second.
Then Zoe twists her hips, and that’s it. I start to move—building pace, skin slapping, the counter rattling beneath us. Her nails drag down my neck, leaving marks, and I fucking love it.
She meets every thrust, bold, wild, her voice getting louder, dirtier. “Harder, Jonah—fuck me.”
I do. Holy hell, I absolutely do. Every ounce of patience I’ve ever possessed combusts on the spot. I drive into her harder, deeper, the sound of skin on skin echoing off the kitchen tile, rough and fast and goddamn desperate. She’s not delicate—she urges me on, gasping my name, telling me not to let up, her legs so fucking open and her heels pressing into my back. She rocks into every thrust, wild, unguarded. Her fingersrake through my hair, then hook my jaw with a grip that leaves marks.
