This is fucking dangerous and I love it way too much.
I gave up on sleep at around five thirty a.m. I slipped into my boots and jacket as quietly as possible and headed out to buy food, hoping to beat the morning crowd at the general store. I don’t want to feed her with the canned goods and emergency rations that are always filling my pantry.
Now that I’ve lined up provisions on the kitchen table and I’m cooking breakfast for her, I try not to think of how it makes me feel. I’m well aware of the satisfaction it gives me to gather food for her. To cook for her. To feed her. To keep her warm and safe.
None of this should feel the way it feels.
I'm above such primitive notions. I'm a modern ogre, not some feral brute. It’s not like I kidnapped her in the dead of winter to court her in my lair until she gives in to my advances.
There will be no courting and certainly no advances. I grunt with frustration at myself as that wicked smile flashes through my mind, and I concentrate on my growing stack of pancakes.
The bedroom door is still closed, no sound from within. Good. She needs sleep after yesterday's trauma.
I set coffee brewing and check on my work. I’ve cooked an acceptable feast for her. Scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, hash browns, fresh bread for toast. Pancakes from scratch using my grandmother's recipe. Yes, that will do.
The smell of bacon fills the cabin, mixing with the woodsmoke and coffee to create something that feels dangerously domestic. I flip another pancake and then add it to the growing stack on the warmed plate. The familiar motions settle something restless in my chest.
I'm just flipping the last pancake when I hear the sound of soft footsteps in the hallway behind me. I pick up her scent before she even enters the room, that sweet feminine fragrance now mixed with my own musk—my scent covering her.
The territorial satisfaction that hits me is so fierce it nearly buckles my knees.
Shit. I’m losing it. I have to be careful.
I take a deep breath and force myself to focus on the pancake stack. I'm in control here. I can handle this.
Then she appears in my peripheral vision, and I know I'm fucked.
She's wearing one of my old t-shirts, which she must have found in one of my drawers. The soft worn white cotton hangs off one shoulder and falls to mid-thigh, revealing miles of shapely pale legs. Her long hair is a riot of bed-messed waves tumbling over her shoulders, and her cheeks are still flushed with sleep. She looks good enough to eat.
She clocks the food and smiles like sunrise breaking over the mountains. My entire body preens with pride as she eyes the food with an approving, ravenous expression.
The food that is definitelynota courting offering.
"Wow, you cooked all this?" She slides onto one of the chairs at the kitchen table. "Did you wake up with the birds?"
Her voice is rich with humor, and it goes straight to my cock. I’m thankful for my apron, hiding the beginning of a bulge that will be impossible to hide if I don’t get myself under control.
"I went to town when the store opened," I manage, placing the plate with the pile of scrambled eggs in the middle of the table. "I don't keep food here in winter except for a few cans."
She tilts her head, and I feel that mischievous energy radiating from her just watching from the corner of my eye. Soon, all plates cram the small table, and I can no longer procrastinate.
I sit in front of her, feeling incongruously large in comparison.
"So you woke up at ridiculous o'clock and hunted breakfast for your grumpy houseguest?"
She gives me a smile so bright it hurts to look at it directly.
I don't deny it, because what's the point? She's not wrong. She doesn’t need to know that I was kept awake by thoughts about her.
"This is an insane amount of food," she observes, taking in the spread I've laid out. "Do you always eat like this?"
"Ogres eat a lot," I say simply.
Her gaze drops to my arms, fully displayed in the black t-shirt I threw on this morning, and her pupils dilate slightly.
"I can see why."
The way she says it, low and appreciative, makes my throat close up entirely. I swallow hard, ignoring the pain as saliva is forced down my gullet. My hands flex with the instinctive desire to reach for her, and I hide them on my lap.
