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I rushed through my shower and joined Kierra in the dining room seven minutes later. I found her struggling to open a bottle of Cabernet.
“Your technique is all wrong,” I spoke softly from behind her. I didn’t mean for the words to drip with desire, but it was hard tamping down my longing for Kierra Houston.
“What technique? Insert corkscrew, twist, and pull—it doesn’t get more complicated than that.”
“Allow me,” I said, reaching for the bottle. She rolled her eyes and eventually handed it over.
“If you asked an expert sommelier, they would say opening a bottle of wine is akin to making love.”
Her brow quirked. “Are you the expert sommelier I should be asking?”
“I wouldn’t say I’m an expert—proficient is the word I’m looking for.”
“Okay. Well, let’s see you work your magic.”
We’re not talking about wine anymore, are we?
“As you wish. The way you handle the bottle is important—be gentle with it. Treat it like…like glass.” I chuckled when she sucked her cheeks in, picking up my sarcasm. “I can tell you like it rough, Kierra.”
“How would you know how I like it?” she asked, closing the small gap between us.
“Look how you mangled this poor cork. You’re rough and impatient—always looking for the quick payout instead of taking your time and savoring it.”
She licked her bottom lip as I proceeded to open the bottle with a resounding pop.
Please stop me, Kierra. I don’t have the strength to stop myself.
“Would you like a taste?”
“Please,” she responded. I tilted the bottle to her lips, and she drank heartily until the burgundy liquid escaped her mouth and traveled down her chin.
“Is it good?”
“Try it for yourself,” she answered, pulling me down. Our lips joined unceremoniously, and the wine bottle I chastised her for treating so aggressively dropped to the floor, narrowly missing my big toe.
Should I stop this? Are we making a mistake? Is it too soon for Kierra? Will she regret it in the morning?
Chapter Seventeen
Kierra
I’ve just opened Pandora’s Box, and I’m fearful that it’ll take a divine act of God to make me close it.
My wine-stained lips moved slowly against his soft lips, and disappointment flooded me when he pulled away. Jonathan stared at me—mouth slightly agape in shock.
“I…,” he trailed off momentarily as we stared at each other. I smiled weakly at how deep his face flushed.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that,” I whispered, not meaning a single word. I meant it and wanted to do it again until I panted through my kiss-swollen lips.
“I’m sorry, too,” he whispered, grazing my cheek with his thumb. “I’m sorry you waited so long to make a move.”
He’d barely punctuated his sentence when his lips were pressed against mine again. I parted my mouth, inviting him in, and I moaned softly into the kiss when he accepted. I deepened the kiss, drawing out a delicate sound from him. His arms wrapped around me and pulled me close. We were body to body—leaving no gaps between us—fitting our starved bodies like puzzle pieces. We fell back into the dining room table, knocking over the stemware that wouldn’t receive a drop of wine that night. I was briefly aware of a glass tumbling to the floor and shattering, but neither of us gave a damn.
His hands smoothed down my body deftly, and my pussy leaked when he gripped my ass. His hands were rough but sure—giving me exactly what I needed without asking. It was as if he knew my body—knew how I loved to be manhandled, dominated, and pushed to my limits.
Abruptly, I was lifted and plopped down onto the table. He swallowed my gasp when he wedged himself between my parted thighs. The feeling of his hardness was foreign and initiated a hunger in me that laid dormant for several months. Briefly, my self-control evacuated as I savored the moment, but as usual, my overthinking hit me like a cold splash of water, forcing me to go rigid.
“Are you okay?” Jonathan rasped, lips inches from mine and voice thick with desire. “Is it Rory? Is it too soon?”
