“My brothers constantly have their pockets stuffed with those. Mynine-year-oldbrothers.”
“Why wouldn’t they love this stuff?” My tongue is numb. “This is obviously something for children.”
“You’re a terrible liar. I see why Christmas has to water down their hot cocoa.”
I chug another cup of coffee. It only mildly helps, and I shove in a bite of pancake, which does, finally, cut the spice. Even so, I stretch my mouth, roll my tongue, and Hex laughs.
“You’re amused by my pain,” I say, but I overemphasize my numb tongue, mashing every word into a pathetic garble.
“Oh, I’m not trying to be subtle about that.” His grin is turning my insides to mush.
I hold up a bite of pancake for him. He shakes his head, takes another sip of tea, and I grunt in objection.
“No. No. Absolutely not. You can’t tell me you don’t likepancakeseither.”
Hex smirks. “Breakfast in general, honestly. I don’t usually eat in the morning.”
“Oh god. Don’t let Renee figure that out—she’ll hog-tie and force-feed you.”
“Renee?”
“Our head chef. So, I basically brought all this food for myself.”
Hex shrugs. “I appreciate the tea.”
I cock my hip on the back of the couch and fold my arms across my chest and shake my head, this smile will be the death of me, and I can think of no sweeter way to go.
“You’re looking at me like that again,” he says, cup to his lips.
“Like what?”
“Like—” He fumbles, and I rock towards him, the smallest crack in his façade lets pieces of him slip through and I want to catch every single one.
My nearness has his breath hitching and he sets down the tea, forcefully, a little sloshing over the side.
“Like what?” I ask again, and I drag my lips from his shoulder to his temple. There’s still the burn of spice on my tongue, and I wonder if he can feel the heat of it, caressing his skin.
He hisses air out his nose. “You know like what.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
“You didn’t hear me say enough last night?”
My hands clasp his upper arms. I thought taking it slow would help me develop a tolerance to him, build up my ability to not disintegrate at the feel of his skin or the little noises he makes. But if anything, all the sensation is even more intense; I’m cursed that every interaction with his body will forever shred my soul until the only thing that remains is the part of me hooked to his needy moan.
“No,” I say into his temple. “I am an insatiable sap. A greedy romantic, and I will never get enough of hearing you talk about what I’m doing to you and the reaction your body is having.”
He teeters, catches himself with his arms around my neck, and I do want to make him tell me, but I need to kiss him more. And so I drive against his sharp hip bones as he devours my lips in a heady, frantic rush. The fact that he’s as starved for me as I am for him has me aiming us for the couch in a scramble—we’re not going to make it, it’s too far away and I need him against menow.My thigh slams into the table, rocks the tray, his cup tips over, so I lift him and there’s a brief crash of shock when he’s airborne.
His eyes widen. Then go intent as he dutifully hooks his legs around my hips and settles in my arms.
Everything else on earth vanishes because he strokes his nails across my scalp, tugs lightly on my curls, angling me back and up so he can arch down to suck on my lip. I directed us last night, he allowed me to, and I go malleable to his control now.
Someone knocks on his door.
He freezes, mouth on mine, hands in my hair. “Oh, no.”
My brain is in a delicious fog and I rise up out of it like pushing through honey.
