I zoom to her bungalow, at her door only a minute later. No one answers the knock, but it’s open, and I walk in, my blood simmering with anticipation.
It’s a studio-type bungalow, usually reserved for guests. I’m surprised Kat didn’t switch for a bigger one. But not surprised it’s her place—clothes hanging over the armchair, on the couch, on the bed, shoes lined up on the floor, magazines, books.
She is chaos. And now she’s in my head.
Her scent is everywhere—coconut oil or whatever she uses for her skin.
The bed is made but empty. The door to the patio is open.
“Kat?” I call, walking slowly to the center of the room.
There is a beach towel hanging over the patio railing, a wicker chair and a little table with an ashtray.
This is so Kat.
I haven’t been here yet, and it’s almost intimate—seeing where she lives,howshe lives.
“Kat?” There’s silence in response.
I pull out my phone.
Me: I’m at your place, and you are not.
Only seconds go by when I get a response.
A picture.
Her bare legs and feet, crossed at the ankles.
I want to send a question mark when I zoom in at the surface she has her feet on…
My motherfucking coffee table.
I want to be angry at her for playing games, but a chuckle escapes me.
This fucking girl…
I storm out of her place, jump on the bike, and race to my villa.
I am so charged by the time I storm into my living room that I don’t care about words or flirting or beating around the bush. I need to touch her. Kiss her. Fuck her. No one else ever made me feel like a buck in rut.
Kat is right there on my couch, her arm leisurely stretched along the back of it, her feet still on my table—barefoot, lucky her—as she gazes at me with that playful smile that I want to slap off her face with my cock.
“You are sooooo in trouble…” I say and lunge at her, grab her by the ankle, and pull her toward me, yanking her down onto her back.
She squeals and twists her foot out of my grasp, jumps up, and squirms onto the coffee table, trying to get away.
But she has no chance. I catch her, wrap my arm around her waist, and wrestle her down onto the table, on her back, putting all my weight on her.
“Don’t fucking run from me again, kitten,” I whisper and crash my mouth into hers.
The table is too small for both of us. Kat’s head is hanging off as I kiss her like I need to breathe through her mouth.
We are not even kissing—we are greedily lapping at each other, grunts and whimpers lacing together as I fist her hair, holding her head so I can kiss her deeper, fuck her mouth with my tongue.
This is intense.
This is madness.