“Not socks per se. Just, keeping them on during sex?”
“Really?”
“Totally. At least according to the issue of Cosmopolitan we keep at home to swat cockroaches.”
He shrugged, like a man who’d only ever read the New England Journal of Medicine and maybe Truck-Pushing Digest. “Why would anyone care one way or the other?”
“Maybe they don’t want to unknowingly have sex with people with horrible, disfigured toes?”
“Do you have disfigured toes?”
“Truly grotesque. Circus-worthy. Antithetical to sex. Basically a built-in contraceptive.”
He sighed, clearly amused. He was struggling to hold on to his moody, broody, intense act, and Olive loved it.
“I’ve seen you in flip-flops multiple times. Which, by the way, are not lab compliant.”
“You must be mistaken.”
“Really.”
“I don’t like what you’re insinuating, Dr. Carlsen. I take the Stanford environmental health and safety guidelines very seriously and— What are you—”
He was so much larger than her, he could hold her down with one hand on her belly as he wrestled her out of her socks, and for some reason she loved every moment of it. She put up a good fight, and maybe he’d have a couple of bruises tomorrow, but when he finally managed to take them off, Olive was out of breath from laughing. Adam caressed her feet reverently, as though they were delicate and perfectly shaped instead of belonging to someone who ran two marathons a year.
“You were right,” he said. Chest heaving, she looked at him curiously. “Your feet are pretty hideous.”
“What?” She gasped and freed herself, pushing at his shoulder until he ended up on his back under her. He surely could have unseated her, giant that he was. And yet. “Take it back.”
“You said it first.”
“Take it back. My feet are cute.”
“In a hideous way, maybe.”
“That’s not a thing.”
His laugh blew warm against her cheek. “There’s probably a German word for that. Cute, but exceptionally ugly.”
She bit his lip just enough to make him feel it, and Adam—he seemed to lose that grip he always had on himself. He seemed to suddenly want more, and he flipped them until she was underneath him, turning the bite into a kiss. Or maybe it was Olive herself, since her tongue was licking his lip, exactly where she’d made it sting.
She should probably tell him to stop. She was sweaty and sticky, and should excuse herself and go take a shower. Yes, th
at sounded like good sex etiquette. But he felt warm and strong, positively glowing. He smelled delicious, even after all they’d done, and she couldn’t help getting sidetracked and letting her arms loop around his neck. Pulling him down.
“You weigh a ton,” she told him. He made to move up and away, but she wrapped her legs around his waist, holding him close. She felt so safe with him. Invincible. A true slayer. He turned her into a powerful, ferocious person, one that could destroy Tom Benton and pancreatic cancer before breakfast.
“No, I love it. Stay, please.” She grinned up at him, and saw his breathing speed up.
“You are a cover hog.” There was a spot at the base of her neck that he’d found earlier, a spot that made her sigh and arch up and melt into the pillow. He attacked it like it was his new true north. He had a way of kissing her, half cautious and half unrestrained, that had her wondering why she used to think of kissing as such a boring, aimless activity.
“I should go clean up,” she said, but didn’t make a move. He slid down, just a couple of inches, just enough to get distracted by her collarbone, and then by the curve of her breast. “Adam.”
He ignored her and traced her jutting hip bones, and her ribs, the taut skin of her belly. He kissed every last freckle, as though to store them up in his memory, and there were so many. “I’m all sticky, Adam.” She squirmed a little.
In response, his palm moved to her ass. To keep her still. “Ssh. I’ll clean you up myself.”
He put his finger inside her and she gasped, because— Oh God. Oh. Oh God. She could hear the wet noises down there, from herself and his own come, and he should be disgusted by this, and she should, too, and yet—