Page 66 of Goose

He glanced over his shoulder. His eyes gestured to the plate I held. “Will you hand me that? Please?”

Completely lost, I did as he asked.

While I gawked, he rinsed the dishes and loaded the dishwasher. He turned around. I was still staring. At nothing in particular, really. Just him. All of him.

He gave me a kiss. A good one. My legs went wobbly.

“Let’s go the bedroom,” I said. “I don’t want to fuck in the kitchen.”

He wrapped his arms around me and kissed me again. This time, it was like the kiss on the roof. Our first kiss.

The hem of my dress raised. His hands cupped the bottom of my butt. Gripping my cheeks firmly, he spread them apart as the kiss continued. I felt myself open, like a flower.

I moaned into his mouth

There was a long list of things I’d told myself I wanted to do the next time we embraced in a passionate kiss. Places I wanted to touch him. How I wanted to hold him in my arms.

I did none of them. My mind raced with ideas, but I was so lost in what he was doing to me that I couldn’t send a signal from my brain to a single one of my extremities.

His kiss—and his hands—had rendered me useless.

A finger entered me. Then, another. Using both hands, he opened me wide. I pulled my mouth away from his.

He opened his eyes. I peered into them. His desires were clear. He wanted me as bad as I wanted him.

“I want to fuck,” I murmured. “Right now.”

He gave me a puzzled look. “In the kitchen?”

The previous locations of my various sexual adventures were limited to seedy motels, cars, and the occasional pickup truck. Fucking in Goose’s bed became a guilty pleasure. Sex on a soft mattress while wrapped in 1,800 thread count sheets separated my former life from my new one. I liked that.

Now, I was so sexually frustrated I didn’t need clean sheets or a bedroom. I needed sex. Any way I could get it.

I glanced around. Goose’s kitchen was as spotless as the rest of his home. It would rival a hospital operating room in cleanliness. The island’s white countertop glistened. It was the perfect place.

“On the island,” I breathed. “Is it clean enough for you?”

He slipped his arm behind my knees and lifted me from my feet. “It is.” One side of his mouth smiled. “I like it that you care.”

“I don’t,” I admitted. “Right now, I’d let you fuck me just about anywhere.”

Chuckling, he carried me to the island. He laid me on it. “Don’t move.”

I had no intention of moving. In fact, had he not carried me, I would have been reduced to crawling. The kiss—and everything that came with it—left me with shaking legs.

“Okay,” I said.

I watched while he got undressed. He tossed his boots aside. His shirt followed. I felt that I should do the same but opted to grant his request and not move.

He wasn’t swollen from head to toe in bulging muscles, nor did he have an abdomen chiseled of stone. He had the body of a long-distance runner. Lean, athletic, and free of any artificial enhancements.

His jeans came off last. Dragging his thumbs along his hips, he took his boxers with them in one shove. His erection pointed skyward.

I wanted him so badly, I ached. I started to disrobe.

His jaw tightened. “Don’t. Move.”

My pussy tingled. Apparently, I liked being told what to do. When it came to sex, anyway. He climbed onto the end of the island.