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I followed his gaze. “Harry, that’s… we eat there.”

“I know.” He picked me up and set me on the edge of the table. The wood was cool but sturdy under my bare thighs, and I sucked in a breath as he stepped between my legs. He put his hand flat on my sternum and pressed me back until I was lying across the table, staring up at the ceiling, completely bare on the surface where we’d shared hundreds of meals with our friends.

“This is so wrong,” I said, even as I spread my thighs wider for him.

“Tell me to stop then.”

“Don’t you dare.”

He dropped to his knees at the end of the table and pulled me toward him by my hips until my ass was at the edge and my legs were draped over his shoulders. His mouth was on me before I could take a full breath. His tongue was flat and firm, dragging up my center and then circling my clit before his lips sealed around it and sucked.

My hands shot to his hair. My back arched off the table and I cried out, loud enough that I was grateful for the empty house. He ate me like he cooked—thorough, attentive, savoring every taste—and the low groans and hums against my clit sent vibrations through me that made my thighs shake on his shoulders.

He slid two fingers inside me and curved them forward, finding the spot that made my breath stutter. His mouth never left my clit, but one hand reached up to pinch and tease my nipple.

“Oh, God, yes. Fuck.” The dual stimulation was almost too much. My heels dug into his back and my hips bucked against his mouth. He pinned me down with his forearm across my hips, holding me against the table while he kept going, and the feeling of being held in place while he destroyed me with his sinful mouth was intoxicating.

His name ripped from my throat as I came hard, tremors racking my body as the pleasure continued to pulse through me in waves. He worked me through every wave, his mouth gentle now, easing me down until the aftershocks faded and I went limp against the wood.

He stood and I watched him through hazy eyes as he unbuttoned his shirt and stripped it off. His chest was broad and defined, his abs taut, and I reached for him, pulling him down by the back of his neck to kiss me. I tasted myself on his mouth, and it made me want him inside me with a desperation that bordered on feral.

“Take off your pants,” I said against his lips.

“Demanding.”

“It’s Valentine’s Day. I get to be demanding.”

His mouth curved against mine in a smile, but he didn’t argue. He straightened and pushed his pants and boxers down, stepping out of them, and his cock sprang free, thick and hard. I propped myself up on my elbows and watched him wrap his hand around himself once, a slow stroke from base to tip, and the sight of Harry touching himself while he looked at me sprawled naked on the kitchen table sent a rush of heat through me so intense I clenched around nothing.

“Get over here,” I demanded.

He grabbed my thighs, and my legs wrapped around his waist. The height was almost perfect as he lined himself up and pushed inside me in one slow, deep stroke that had us both groaning. The stretch of him was exquisite, and my nails dug into his forearms as he bottomed out.

He held still for a beat, his jaw clenched, his hands gripping my hips. “I could stay inside you forever.” His voice was barely holding together.

“No complaints here.”

Every time with him got better. I wasn’t sure how that was possible when it was always mind-blowing, but it was true.

Then he started to move. Slow at first, with long strokes where he pulled nearly all the way out before sinking back in, and the drag of him against my walls had me arching off the table. His thumbs pressed into the hollows of my hips, holding me exactly where he wanted me while he set a rhythm that was controlled and devastating.

A tiny, rational part of my brain catalogued the fact that we were having sex on a piece of furniture that we all routinely ate at, but that thought lasted approximately half a second before Harry angled his hips and thrust against a spot that had every thought I’d ever had evaporating from my brain.

“Harder,” I gasped. If he kept hitting this spot, I might die from the pleasure, but oh my God, what a way to go.

His grip on my hips tightened and his pace quickened, each thrust forceful enough to push me slightly across the table’s surface. The pleasure started ratcheting higher like the start of a roller coaster when you’re going straight up slowly, knowing you’re going to have to go down eventually and it’ll be an insane rush. The sound of skin hitting skin filled the kitchen, mixed with my moans and his ragged breathing.

His hand slid up my body—over my stomach, between my breasts, along my collarbone—and then his fingers wrapped around the front of my throat. Light, controlled pressure against my pulse point, not restricting but possessive, and my entire body went electric.

“Yes,” I breathed.

God, how did he know? We hadn’t talked about this and it hadn’t been something I’d ever been brave enough to ask for with past partners—probably because you really had to trust someone to let them hold your neck like this.

But he’d known.

His eyes locked on mine, dark gray, intense, and laser-focused in a way that made me feel like the only thing in his entire world. His hand stayed at my throat while his hips drove into me with a rhythm that was falling apart at the edges as his control started to fray. I loved watching him lose it—loved being the reason the most composed man I’d ever met came undone.

“Touch yourself,” he said, his hand lightly squeezing my throat. It was a command, but his voice was so wrecked it barely held together.