Get up, go make cookies, muffins, cupcakes and other bits and bobs to fill SC’s coffee cubby case. Then wait tables.
After work, come home and decorate the sheet cake and fill and decorate the two dozen cupcakes I baked yesterday that were right now in my fridge. Then deliver them for the retirement party that was happening tonight.
Tomorrow, another kid’s birthday (panda themed with cute cherry blossoms and bamboo trimming the sides of the cake) and a bridal shower (fortunately, a naked cake, but with an elaborate flower arrangement at the top).
Sunday, no orders, thank God.
My energy levels were appreciative of a day of rest on the horizon; my bank account was not.
On this thought, my bed moved, and that tendril of hair was released only for a big, warm hand to smooth down the nape of my neck and my spine, this obviously taking my attention from my hectic schedule, and for some reason, automatically, instead of fleeing immediately, my body moved too (and not to flee).
That was, it uncurled, and as the heat of hard, silken muscle fitted to my front, with zero hesitation, I fitted myself in return as that hand pressed at the small of my back.
At that point, I was in no doubt there was a man in bed with me, because he had no trouble introducing his blatant morning condition to the juncture between my hips.
And I knew that man was Gabe, because I knew his smell: a clean aroma with hints of spice.
Hell, regardless that we’d never been in this position (alas), I even knew his feel.
Okay.
Um…
What was happening?
I didn’t know, but what happened next was he kissed my forehead. After delivering that, I felt the tip of his nose skate along the bridge of mine, then he brushed his mouth against mine.
What I should do was hark back to figure out what got me into this situation.
Alternatively, I should jump out of bed and demand to know what was going on.
I didn’t do either of those.
No, I couldn’t, because all that was me was about all that was him, and from what I could feel, there was a lot of him…everywhere.
“You sleep like a cat,” he murmured, his lips moving against my lips, causing an internal shiver and a full-on private-place quiver. “All curled up and tucked to my side,” he kept murmuring. “Fuckin’ cute.”
Okay.
Ummmmmmmmmmmmmm!
What was happening?!
Before I could ask, he did that delectable lip brush thing again, so I could do nothing but concentrate on controlling myself and not, say, jumping his bones.
Then, his lips still to mine, he said, “Know you gotta hit it and I gotta go home and get my workout bag to hit the gym. Talk soon.”
He then pressed those lips to mine, light, sweet, promising, before he was gone.
Just like that (with a little blip when he tucked the covers around me).
He was there one second. Just his presence was there the next. It was gone the second after that. And about five seconds after that, I heard the front door close. And, if my hearing didn’t deceive me, I also heard the lock turning.
Of course, the Nightingale Men had easy access to the Avenging Angels. This was due to historical issues that happened up in Denver a little over a decade ago when the OG Hot Bunch were claiming their women (known as the Rock Chicks).
And, obviously, there was the not-small matter of the AAs getting involved in human trafficking, homeless people abductions and murder.
Let’s just say they were taking no chances.
