“And your mother? How does she feel about all this? Does she know what’s going on in your head?”
Well, okay, then.Nothing killed the thought of hot, sweaty sex like thinking of your mother.
I laced my fingers behind my head and faced the ceiling again. I’d spent enough sleepless nights staring at it to know it gave no answers.
“No. I can’t dump my problems on her. She lives her life under the cloud of her cancer coming back. My mother is the strongest person I know. She threw out everything that reminded her of my father here, and up and moved to London. A fresh start, she said. She’s happier than I am. She loves me but doesn’t need me anymore either.”
Press nudged my knee with his foot. “How about me…maybe I need you?”
I reached out a hand to him. “Do you? Do you need me, Press?”
He entwined his fingers with mine. “Maybe, yeah. You’re kind of addictive.”
“Mmm…yeah? Tell me more.” I yanked him close and covered his mouth with mine, drinking in his honeyed sweetness. I crushed him closer, and beneath my hand, his heart beat a frenzied tattoo. The more I had of him, the more I needed. He gave me everything I’d been missing.
“You’re fishing, aren’t you?” Press’s hot breath stuttered against my lips.
“No, what I’m trying to do is get you under me, but you’re not cooperating.”
With his hair hanging over his face and his face alight with laughter, Press rubbed his nose against mine, a gesture so intimate and genuine, I had to resist the urge to hug him tight and whisper in his ear for him to never leave me.
I got a peck on the cheek, and then Press, annoyingly cheerful, bounced out of bed and tugged at my hand, which he hadn’t released. “We need to eat breakfast and not waste the entire day in bed.”
“Believe me, if I kept you in bed all day, it would not be a waste.”
He groaned. “I’ve unleashed a sex monster.”
I made a grab for him, but he ducked and evaded me. “Come on. I’m hungry.”
“Me too.” I waggled my brows. “For you.”
“Oh, God. A sex monster and awful jokes wrapped up in one. You know, Mr. Sherman, I slaved over a hot stove for that cold French toast.” He winked, and with a wiggle of that very fine ass, swiped his jeans off the floor and hopped on one foot and then the other to put them on. “Let’s eat.”
The man was too cheerful for words, but I found I was happy enough not to deny him anything. Especially since he remained bare-chested and left the top of his jeans unbuttoned, and goddamn if that wasn’t the sexiest thing I’d had in my bedroom in forever. My mouth dried at the sight of that happy trail disappearing beneath his waistband.
“Fine.” I grumbled as I dragged myself out of bed and pulled on my jeans. I followed him down to the kitchen, where he reheated the French toast and the syrup with a splash of rum.
“Good?” His anxious eyes never left mine as I stuffed a forkful of food in my mouth.
“Mmm…” The garbled response won me a smile, and he sat down and cut into his stack. Considering my usual breakfast was…nothing, this was ecstasy on a plate. The doorbell rang and I frowned, glancing at the clock. Ten thirty on a Sunday morning. Who the hell was that? I decided to ignore it and reached for the last piece of bacon.
“I can make more?” Press arched a brow.
“Oh, yeah. Then we can take the plate upstairs to bed.”
He was about to answer, when the chimes rang more insistently, as if someone was leaning on the bell outside. I wished I’d put in one of those door cameras so I could see who I was ignoring. I licked my fingers.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?” Press gave me a look over his shoulder as he fried up the bacon.
“Nope. Sunday mornings are mine. Whoever it is can fuck off.”
But a second later I heard footsteps on the stairs outside, and a face appeared at the kitchen door. Did I mention there was an outside entrance below? I never used it, and in fact, had placed a cabinet across the lower half, but apparently Ethan remembered its existence, because it was his face at the window. He knocked on the glass.
Let me in, he mouthed.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I groaned.
Press turned off the stove and put the bacon on paper towels to drain. “I’m gathering it’s someone you don’t want to see.”
