Instead, I take two steps forward and grab the pink robe hanging off the back of Giselle’s bedroom door.
I piss, flush, wash my hands, rinse my mouth with a capful of minty mouthwash and then slip my arms through the fluffy sleeves, securing the belt around my waist.
When I pad back into the kitchen, it’s to find Giselle has already beat me there, the kettle boiling loudly as she reaches into the cupboard above her head to grab two mugs.
I watch, cock kicking in my boxers, as the jumper she’s wrapped herself in, rises higher and higher and higher until the bottom curve of her arse enters my vision.
She’s bare beneath her clothes.
Fucking hell…
I mean, I shouldn’t be shocked, I’m the one who peeled the underwear off her body. But still, seeing her bare arse, while standing in her kitchen, wearing nothing but my boxers and a pink, fluffy robe on my birthday morning, isn’t something I expected to be happening.
Mugs in hand, Giselle pops back down to the soles of her feet and then, as if she can feel the weight of my stare on her body, she glances over her shoulder at me.
For a heartbeat, or two, we stay there; locked in place with a soft stare, but never moving.
Her hair is unbound, she isn’t wearing a stitch of makeup, dressed still in her sleep clothes and still, she’s got be the prettiest woman I’ve ever laid my eyes on.
I’m desperate to touch her. How easy it would be to take three steps forward, grip onto those hips of hers, and spin her around until I can tilt her chin upwards and taste her lips like I did back in the bedroom…
Giselle breaks our stare-off first, much to my disappointment, turning away to pour boiling water into two mugs.
Forcing my feet to move over the freezing cold linoleum floor of her kitchen, I graze my hand along her lower back, and rip open the door to her refrigerator.
“You we’re right about not being a breakfast person.” I peer at the shelves, noting the lack of breakfast materials. It’s mainly full of plastic containers of pasta, sandwich meat, milk and… a stray pack of baby carrots.
“I told you so.”
Rolling my eyes at her bratty tone, I straighten and grab the carton of free-range eggs tucked away in the corner of the kitchen counter.
I find a frying pan in another cupboard and begin to make enough scrambled eggs to feed at least four people. Giselle watches me, but stays silent, even as she grabs two plates for us and pops four pieces of bread into the toaster.
With a healthy amount of salt and black pepper sprinkled onto of the fluffy eggs, I carry our plates over to Giselle’s small two-seater table. A half dead vase of flowers sits in the centre, a stack of unopened envelopes, all with Giselle’s name printed on them, beside them.
“Thank you,” I say when Giselle places my freshly brewed cup of tea in front of me.
“You’re welcome.”
She might not usually be the type of person to make time for breakfast, but Giselle digs into her plate of scrambled eggs and toast with vigour. I try, and fail, to convince myself it’s not because of the mind blowing oral I gave her, which has made her work up an appetite. More than once I have to reach down and rearrange myself – my cock straining against my boxers at the sound of her soft pleased groans.
“That was really good, Hudson,” she praises, once she’s cleared her plate, gulping down a mouthful of breakfast tea.
“Glad you think so,” I say, biting off a corner of my toast. “I’m not as good a cook as my brothers, but there’s a few things I can whip up.”
“What’s your favourite thing to cook?”
“If I had to pick… probably steak because it’s my favourite thing to eat. Steak with dauphinoise potatoes and steamed broccoli stems.”
“Sounds delicious.”
“It is, I—” The loud ringtone coming from my phone, hidden somewhere in the depths of my trouser pockets, which I’d taken off last night and left in a crumpled heap on the living room rug before I fell asleep on the sofa, interrupts our conversation. It blares through Giselle’s open plan living and dining area, ringing off the hook until it falls silent and then… picks back up again.
“I should get that.”
Giselle nods. “Go. I need to wash up anyway.”
Yanking my trousers off the floor, I dig deep for my mobile, hitting the green accept button on the screen before I’ve even fully looked at the caller ID.
