“Action-oriented. Decisive.” Hazel flaps her hands at me. “Stop waffling, Mr. Reed. This is a limited-time offer to get mostly naked with me, so shit or get off the pot.”
God, the things she says. I laugh and capture her hand before it can land on my butt again.
I grab her, slinging her over my shoulder in a fireman carry. It’s hardly dignified, but Hazel muffles a shriek of protest because we’ve both heard the new sounds coming from the other room—someone’s Mini-Me, one of Hazel’s many nieces and nephews, is rapidly approaching, belting out the words to a cartoon-show theme song. Now we really shouldn’t get caught kissing.
That’s my excuse, at any rate.
The truth? I haven’t had this much fun in ages. I discard the idea of the downstairs bathroom—its dimensions are a miserly three feet by five feet and fitting two people in there would be challenge enough without the logistics of undressing my Hazel surprise. Plus, toilets are gross. Whatever you’ve done in there, a million other people have also done. Sorry to spoil your fantasies, but it’s a fact—the unromantic 500,000 bacterial cells per square inch does not make for the hotness of potential discovery. The upstairs bathroom is larger but it’s full of her mother’s stuff—so that’s also a hard no, leaving the guest bedroom as our sole viable option. Done. “Bedroom,” I say.
I take the stairs two at a time before we can be ambushed by any more family members. Hazel works her hands down the back of my jeans, cupping and squeezing my butt. I can’t see her face but I know the expression she’ll be wearing—happy, mischievous, focused. Hazel doesn’t believe in half measures.
“Left,” she announces when I hit the top of the stairs and pause in the middle of the long hallway that stretches to the left and right of the stairs. “Third door down.”
I walk-spring down the hallway, open the door and aim for the bed. Since the room’s not that much bigger than the downstairs powder room or a closet, it’s hard to miss. My knees bump the edge of the mattress as I tumble Hazel onto it and twist around to close and lock the door.
When I uncontort, Hazel’s just setting her phone on the tiny table beside the bed. “Timer,” she says.
“Is there a prize for who comes fastest?”
She looks interested for a second, but then shakes her head. “I project we have more than ten and less than twelve minutes before we’re missed. Grab a towel.”
She points to the stack of clean towels dwarfing the minuscule dresser—Margie’s tiny house requires equally miniature furniture—and I do as ordered.
“Are we committing kinky acts on this towel?” I unroll it as Hazel shifts to make room for me.
“We can’t get the coverlet dirty.” Hazel reaches for me, tugging at my wrist. “Get naked and then get over here.”
I’m surprised she doesn’t decide we need to do it up against the wall or on the floor. Still, I strip off my jeans and boxer briefs and let her pull me down onto the bed. I definitely don’t protest when she straddles me.
And I know we’re in a hurry and that even if we weren’t, this is only temporary, but I still kiss her slow, a leisurely exploration of her mouth, our lips pressed together, angling for surer, deeper possession. I cup the back of her neck, pulling her closer. We’re equally good at this—giving, taking, sharing the electric heat that builds between us. As if we were both cold before, but now I’ve found the right person to warm me up and so has she. Not the one person, but right—and that’s more than good enough for me.
She presses harder against me, her thighs gripping my hips, her hands cupping my face as she moves me where she needs me to be. Her touch is determined and eager and so fucking amazing. Like she knows exactly what she wants and I’m perfect. Like I’m exactly right for her.
I kiss her harder, sliding my tongue over her bottom lip, tasting peaches and champagne, mint and something else that’s entirely Hazel. Hazel opens up and we kiss like that for long, stolen moments, filling the bedroom with husky, rough sounds and naked need. If I could eat her up, I would. She feels...effervescent, like the bright fizz of the champagne we drank—sweet and sharp, a fleeting, impossible-to-capture pleasure.
“Hurry up,” she whisper-orders. “Nine minutes.”
I tug up her sundress, revealing a baby blue thong that deserves much more appreciation than I have time for. I drag my thumb up the hot, damp center of Hazel, but she’s one step ahead of me. She slides her hands inside her panties and rubs her clit, her eyes on mine as she gives me the words I’ll never forget.
“I want to come bad.”
“Feels like you could use a hand.” I slide her panties to the side and explore her slick, hot core with my fingers. She gasps and bites her lip, her forehead puckering as she concentrates, chasing the sensations. Sex is always amazing, and nothing feels better than sinking my fingers into my partner, but this, with Hazel—this is something else.
Before I can figure out what that something is or even pick up the rhythm I’m tracing on her body, she’s moved on. She leans forward, wriggling out of her panties in a way that’s truly miraculous, and places her hands on my shoulders, a look of intense concentration on her face as she sinks down onto my dick.
There’s nothing between us.
Fuck.
“Condom,” I groan.
“Problem solved.” She rises up on her knees, sinks back down. “My test results came back clean and I’m on the Pill.”
Hazel knows her facts, and we’d never hurt each other. I cup her knees, helping her rise and fall as we find the perfect rhythm together, faster and harder, our bodies slapping together in an earthy percussion. We need to be quiet, but we’re both making sounds, groaning, gasping
