And as we walk out of her bakery and toward my apartment, her small hand warm in mine, I know with absolute certainty that whatever happens next will change everything.
I’ve spent my life building walls, creating structures, defining boundaries.
And in the span of a few months, Lena Reyes has walked through every single one of them like they weren’t even there.
Now, as I lead her up the stairs to my apartment, I’m about to let her past the final barrier.
And gods help me, I can’t wait.
CHAPTER 9
lena
BAKED GOODNESS
Thorne’s apartment is exactly what I expected and nothing like I imagined all at once. As he leads me through the door, his hand warm and steady against the small of my back, I take in the clean lines, the minimalist furniture, the complete and utter absence of clutter. It’s so him—practical, purposeful, nothing frivolous or unnecessary. Yet there’s beauty in the simplicity, in the carefully selected pieces that speak of craftsmanship and patience. Just like the man himself.
The space is massive—high ceilings to accommodate his height, wide doorways for his broad shoulders. Everything is scaled slightly larger than standard, but it doesn’t feel overwhelming. It feels right. Balanced.
“You can stop analyzing my furniture,” he rumbles behind me, his breath warm against my ear.
I turn, grinning up at him. “Can’t help it. Professional curiosity. A baker studies a baker’s kitchen, a furniture maker’s apartment is fair game.”
His mouth twitches. “And?”
“It’s very...” I search for a word that won’t sound like an insult, “...tidy.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Unlike your flour explosion of a bakery?”
“Hey, creative chaos is a legitimate aesthetic,” I protest, stepping further into the room. The living area opens up to a kitchen that’s surprisingly well-equipped. Lots of counter space. Professional-grade appliances. A knife block with handles worn from use.
Then I notice something else.
I close my eyes and inhale deeply. “Wow, you can really smell the bakery in here.”
When I open them, Thorne is watching me, his expression guarded.
“You’ve been a constant temptation,” he says, his voice dropping to that low rumble that makes my skin tingle. “Walking around smelling like sugar and spice, bringing me food, invading my space with your...everything.”
I step closer to him, drawn by the intensity in his eyes. “Your everything isn’t so bad either.”
His hands find my waist, large and warm and steady. “I’ve been fighting this for months.”
“Why?” I whisper, sliding my palms up his chest.
“Because I’m your landlord,” he says, but there’s no conviction in it. “Because I’m a Minotaur. Because you’re?—”
“Perfect for you?” I suggest, rising onto my tiptoes.
He makes a sound that’s half laugh, half groan. “Impossible. You’re impossible.”
“Yet here we are,” I murmur against his lips.
And then we’re kissing again, but this time it’s different. Before, it was all surprise and sudden heat. Now, there’s purpose. Intent. His mouth moves over mine with deliberate pressure, his tongue sliding against my lower lip, seeking entrance that I eagerly grant.
One of his hands moves to cup the back of my head, fingers tangling in my hair, while the other slides lower, over the curve of my hip, pulling me closer until I’m pressed fully against him. I can feel the hard planes of his chest, the barely contained strength in his arms, and lower—the unmistakable evidence of his desire.
I gasp against his mouth as he lifts me easily, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carries me from the kitchen through the living room and down a hallway.
