By the time I cracked the first egg into the bowl, he was behind me, close enough that the heat from his body ghosted over my back. His voice, quiet and amused, curled around my ear:
“You know,” he said, “if you were looking for an excuse to stand around half-dressed in my kitchen, you didn’t need to involve poultry.”
I turned, whisk still in hand, feeling the flush creep up my neck. “You’re one to talk. You’ve been smirking at me like you’re about to write me into a scandalous scene.”
“I’ve never written anything as scandalous as you, Colette,” he murmured.
And just when I was about to say something — anything — his hands found my hips, fingers sliding under the hem of the sweater like he was seconds away from claiming a stake on me.
“You’re trying to distract yourself,” he said roughly.
“From what?” I grinned, tugging his hand just a little higher, “We need to eat. I’m also an excellent breakfast date.”
He leaned down, lips brushing somewhere dangerously near the shell of my ear. “And what,” he murmured, “does an excellent breakfast date do when the host is still… tense from the night before?”
I swallowed.
And stirred the eggs.
“Depends,” I said. “Are we talking… emotional tension, or are we back to the kind where you can’t look me in the eye without remembering exactly how good I felt on your lap?”
His soft groan was answer enough.
He didn’t answer with words — he didn’t need to. The shift in his body was enough: the lean in, the breath that hitched just a little too loud, the hands that splayed with careful intention across my hips.
My pulse skittered. I wasn’t sure I’d remembered to breathe.
“You’re trouble,” he murmured against my neck, voice low in a way that sent sparks dancing up my spine.
“You’re the one standing bare-chested in a cabin with no power and a girl half your age wearing nothing under your sweater,” I countered, smirking — but my voice cracked slightly in the middle, and I hated how easily he noticed.
His fingers slipped around my waist, pulling me just a little closer, pressing the line of his body against mine in a way that asked questions with more weight than words. As he shifted, I felt the hard length of his shaft pressed against me.
“Oh,” he said, voice velvet and ruin, “I’ve noticed.” A slow grin. A little twitch. “Believe me, Colette. I’ve noticed everything about you.”
My breath hitched as the whisk clattered uselessly into the bowl.
He shoved the bowl aside without a second thought. One of his hands slipped from my waist to cup me through my underwear, the moan in his throat deepening. “Damn it, Colette.” He ran his finger against the seam of my panties, releasing some type of growl-laugh at how… enthusiastic I already was.
“Tell me when to stop,” he murmured.
The words punched through me like fire and ice. I swallowed, heat licking through every inch of my skin. “You’ll know,” I whispered.
His answering exhale was nearly a growl — hands sliding up my sides, bunching the hem of his sweater in his fists as if he’d been holding himself back for far too long, and maybe — just maybe, he was out of restraint to give.
That was when the egg timer dinged.
Both of us froze.
A beat. Two.
Then his head dropped against my shoulder blade, a deep laugh raking through his chest as he groaned, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I was laughing too, breathless and burning and already pressing my hips backwards into him. “Breakfast can wait.”
But the way he looked at me — like I was a hurricane in bare legs and borrowed wool — told me he was done waiting.
And maybe, just maybe… so was I.
