Kiss her across the counter and give her what she's asking for

You don't think about it anymore. You just move.

Your hands find the edge of the breakfast bar and you lean across it, closing the three feet between you in a single motion. Your mouth meets hers mid-breath, and the contact is electric—her lips are warm, slightly parted, and she tastes faintly of something sweet and metallic, like copper pennies left in the rain. She makes a small, startled sound against your mouth, her fingers coming up to grip the front edge of the counter.

Then she kisses you back.

It isn't tender. It isn't gentle. Her free hand shoots up and grabs the back of your neck, pulling you harder against her, and her teeth catch your lower lip with enough pressure to sting. You feel the vibration of a moan travel from her throat into yours. The counter digs into your stomach as you lean further, one hand finding the curve of her jaw, tilting her face up toward you.

"Get over here," she breathes against your mouth. "Stop hiding behind furniture."

You come around the counter in three steps. The moment you're on her side, her hands are on your bare chest, fingers splayed across your pectorals, and you can feel the faint tremor running through her palms. She's shaking—not from cold, not from fear. From need.

You pull her against you and the full-body contact hits you like a wall. Her breasts press flat against your chest, her nipples hard points of heat against your skin. Her stomach is taut against yours, her hips tilting forward instinctively, and the warmth radiating from between her thighs is palpable even through your khakis.

"Bedroom," she says, her voice rough. It isn't a question.

You guide her down the short hallway, your hand on the small of her back, feeling the ridge of her spine beneath your palm. She walks ahead of you the last few steps, and you watch the muscles of her back shift, the sway of her hips, the way her dark hair falls between her shoulder blades. She is not Jane. The way she moves—purposeful, predatory even now—reminds you of that with every step.

She turns at the foot of your bed and sits on the edge, looking up at you. The last of the evening light comes through the bedroom window and paints her in shades of gold and shadow. Her pupils are blown wide, her chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths. She reaches for the waistband of your khakis.

"These need to come off," she says, and her fingers work the button with surprising deftness. The zipper follows, and she tugs the trousers down over your hips. Your cock is already hard, straining against your boxers, and her eyes drop to it.

"Oh," she says softly. A single syllable that carries a weight of curiosity and hunger. She looks back up at you. "I wasn't kidding about never having done this."

"We can go slow," you say.

"No." Her voice is firm. She hooks her fingers into the elastic of your boxers and pulls them down. Your cock springs free, fully erect, and she stares at it for a long moment—the thick shaft, the flushed head already glistening with a bead of precum. Her tongue darts across her lower lip.

"Don't go slow," she says. "I've waited long enough for something that isn't pain."

She scoots back on the bed, and you follow her, kneeling between her parted thighs. Up close, her pussy is smooth and bare, the labia flushed a deep pink, visibly slick with arousal. You can see the wetness catching the light. Her clit is swollen, peeking from beneath its hood, and the sight of it sends a pulse of heat straight to your groin.

You lower yourself over her, bracing on one arm, and kiss her again—deeper this time, your tongue sliding against hers. She arches beneath you, her hips lifting, and you feel the wet heat of her pussy press against the underside of your shaft. The contact draws a groan from both of you simultaneously.

"Sam," she whispers against your jaw. "Please."

You reach between your bodies, wrapping your hand around the base of your cock and guiding the head to her entrance. The tip nudges against her slick folds, parting her labia, and you feel the heat of her engulf just the glans. She's impossibly tight—her body tensing beneath you.

"Look at me," you say.

Her dark eyes lock onto yours. Jane's eyes. Not Jane's expression. This is Lina—fierce and frightened and wanting.

You push forward. The head of your cock breaches her, stretching her entrance, and she gasps—a sharp, punched-out sound that she tries to swallow. Her hands fly to your shoulders, nails digging in.

"Keep going," she manages through clenched teeth. "Don't you dare stop."

You sink into her inch by inch. Her pussy grips your cock like a fist, the walls fluttering and clenching around you as her body adjusts to the intrusion. She's wet enough that the slide is smooth despite how tight she is, and the sensation—the heat, the pressure, the rhythmic pulsing of her inner muscles—makes your vision blur at the edges.

When you bottom out, your pelvis flush against hers, she lets out a long, shuddering breath that sounds like it's been trapped inside her for years. Her eyes are glassy, her lips parted, a single tear tracking down her temple into her hairline.

"God," she whispers. "That's... that's what it feels like."

You hold still, giving her time, watching the play of sensation across her face. Then her hips shift beneath you—a small, experimental roll—and the friction makes you both groan.

"Move," she says. "I want to feel all of it."