And then she saw him.
Chase—Standing in the kitchen. Barefoot. Shirtless.
Wearing only a pair of gray athletic shorts that hung far too low on his hips.
Her thighs clenched at the sight.
His back was to her, the muscles shifting effortlessly as he flipped something in the pan. The tattoos lining his arms and shoulders looked obscene in the morning light, stretching over his broad, sculpted frame like something sinful.
Savannah’s breath caught.
No man should look that good in the morning.
She crossed her arms, leaning against the doorway, a slow smirk moving on her lips.
“So you cook after you fuck a woman senseless?”
Chase froze for half a second, spatula poised mid-air before he let out a low, knowing chuckle.
“Only for the ones who make me lose my fucking mind.”
Her stomach flipped. Her breath hitched. Her body betrayed her.
Because that’s what she was to him? A woman who made him lose control?
Before she could overthink it, he turned.
His gaze swept over her, slow, possessive, taking in the oversized shirt hanging loose around her frame, her bare legs peeking out from beneath the hem, her hair a wild mess from where his fingers had tangled into it the night before.
His jaw tightened.
His eyes darkened.
“Come here, Monroe.”
A shiver rolled down her spine at the way his voice dropped, deep and gravelly.
She smirked. “Or what?”
His expression shifted.
Something wicked, dangerous, borderline feral flashed behind his eyes.
“Or I’ll come get you myself.”
Her breath stalled.
This man. This mother fucking man.
She loved pushing him, loved seeing how close she could get him to snapping.
So she didn’t move.
She just tilted her head, squinting, watching him, challenging him.
His nostrils flared. “Alright, then.” Before she could react, Chase was on her, his hands gripping her thighs, lifting her off the ground effortlessly, throwing her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing.
She shrieked, laughing as he carried her toward the counter, his fingers squeezing her ass through the thin fabric of his shirt.
