And both of them wondering how the hell to face the morning.
Because the silence?
The silence says everything.
And it hurts like hell.
69
Tension Rising
Sarawakesearlierthanusual. She creeps to the bathroom, quietly brushes her teeth, and takes a quick shower. Once she dries off and throws on some clothes, she heads downstairs. With each creak of the staircase, she pauses and looks down the hall, waiting for Jaxon’s door to open. To her surprise, it doesn’t—and she makes it down to the living room.
With last night still very present in her mind, she decides to make a big breakfast instead of watching TV. One—so they all can eat. Two—it’ll distract her from the ache clawing through her chest and between her thighs. Sara can’t stop replaying the conversation she and Jaxon had on the porch, or the near-kiss that felt like the earth shifted beneath them. The way he opened up, the way his eyes saw through her. There was nothing casual about it. Nothing safe. It was raw. Deep. Laced with something dangerously close to devotion.
He is the perfect man. And this? This could be the perfect life.
The thoughts linger—flickers of need crawling up her spine as her hands start moving in the kitchen. She talks to herself like a woman trying to stay grounded, trying to drown temptation in the sound of her own voice.
“I could have all of this. All I have to do is give in… just let go.”
Each time she tries to shake it off, that almost kiss comes rushing back like a slap and a caress all at once. A reminder. A whisper. A dare.
She shakes her head. “Bacon. Eggs. Grits,” she mutters like a mantra. Like a lifeline.
Sara grabs the pot for the grits like she’s reaching for him—slow, intentional, already aching in the center of her body. Her fingers curl around the handle, but it’s not metal she feels. It’s him. Thick, warm, twitching in her grip. She sets it on the stove like she’s laying him down—exposed, pulsing, hers. Her thighs clench before she even turns the burner on.
The cabinet clicks shut behind her, but her body doesn’t move. It’s already buzzing, wound tight and humming with every memory Jaxon ever burned into her skin. She breathes slow, tries to focus, but her focus slips right down between her legs, where need has already soaked through.
The burner ignites with a flick and a flare—just like him. The heat licks up her arms, across her neck, settling over her chest like a weighted blanket of lust. In her head, it’s his mouth on her skin. His breath on her neck. His voice—low and possessive—murmuringdon’t fucking move. The flame steadies. So does her pulse. It’s the kind of slow burn that promises ruin.
She pulls the bacon and eggs from the fridge and lays them out on the counter like sacrifices. Her hands tremble slightly. Her body buzzes louder. Every strip of bacon is a command. Every egg is a promise. She doesn’t need a priest—she needs Jaxon on his knees behind her, pushing her forward while she pretends to cook through the sound of her own moans.
The grits go in next—dry to start, but once they hit the water, they thicken with each slow stir. Pulse by pulse. Her wrist circles the spoon like she’s grinding down on him. The bubbling is obscene—thick and wet and suggestive. Just like her thoughts. Just like the mess already clinging between her thighs.
Then the bacon hits the pan. The hiss is so sharp it makes her gasp. It sounds like a moan. Like the echo of her ass slapping against Jaxon’s thighs, over and over, fast and frenzied. She hears it, feels it—the way he should pull her down on him, demanding more, harder, deeper. The crackle of grease becomes a rhythm—his hips, her whimpers, the slap of skin on skin in a dark room where no one is allowed to be gentle.
She reaches for the eggs and cracks them hard. One after another. The yolks spill out, golden and slick, and her breath catches because it would be the way she leaks after he finishes inside her. She stares at the bowl, the mess of it, and her whole body throbs. Her grip on the whisk tightens, brutal and unrelenting, like it’s not eggs she’s beating—it’s Jaxon’s cock in her fist. Her wrist moves faster. Tighter. Like she’s kneeling in front of him, stroking him with both hands while he fists her hair and growls that he’s going to come down her throat.
The eggs hit the pan and the sizzle is sinful. Wet. Loud. Filthy. She pictures him dragging her shorts down mid-stir, bending her over the stove and slipping two fingers inside her like he owns the right to every wet, trembling part of her body. No warning. No permission. Just him—there. Always.
She grabs the tongs, but her mind’s gone. It’s not bacon she’s flipping—it’s herself. Bent over. Pulled apart. Jaxon behind her, teeth at her neck, hands on her thighs, voice low and dark while he whispers exactly how many ways he plans to break her. She clenches around nothing. Her body’s begging and he’s not even in the room.
The stovetop is fire, but it’s nothing compared to the blaze rolling beneath her skin. She stirs the grits again, slower this time, circles widening. Every movement mimics the way she rides him—hips rolling, muscles tight, his hands bruising her waist as she begs for more. She moans under her breath. The air is thick, her knees weak, her panties ruined.
The grease pops behind her. It sounds like a slap. She pictures him flipping her over. Face-down. Ass-up. One hand in her hair, the other on her spine, pushing her into the mattress while he fucks her like it’s his right. She bites her lip and breathes through it—but the heat, the smell, the sound—it’s all too much.
The kitchen is soaked in sex.
Every scent. Every motion. Every sound is laced in lust. The eggs aren’t eggs—they’re moans. The bacon isn’t meat—it’s friction. The grits aren’t grits—they’re the mess she makes when he tells her to be good and she fucking tries.
She can practically taste him—salt and sin and something so dark and addictive it would ruin her for anything else. The only thing keeping her upright is the promise of the plate in front of her and the fantasy clawing at the edges of her sanity.
A few more minutes and the bacon will be done.
So will she.
Suddenly, Jaqueline turns the corner into the kitchen.
