She leans against the doorframe, arms folded loosely. “Long day?”
I take one more step—close enough to smell her, close enough to feel that pull in my gut that has never once calmed down since the night I walked into Hanover’s office and found her standing there brave and furious.
“Yeah,” I say, voice rough. “Long.”
Stella’s gaze drops to my mouth, then back up. “I made dinner.”
My eyes narrow. “You’re trying to distract me.”
She bats her lashes with fake innocence. “Me? Never.”
I drop my keys onto the little table by the door without taking my eyes off her. “Where’s the dinner.”
Stella’s smile turns wicked. “In the oven.”
“And what’s this,” I ask, nodding at my shirt, “because it sure looks like bait.”
She pushes off the frame and steps closer, slow. “It’s comfortable.”
“It’s dangerous,” I correct.
Her eyes shine. “Good.”
That single word flips something in me.
I don’t grab her. I don’t rush her. I’ve never rushed Stella—she’s sunshine and fire, and she deserves to choose every step.
So I move in slow, let my hands slide to her hips, feel the warmth of her through cotton.
Her breath catches.
“Hi,” she whispers again, softer now.
I lower my mouth to her ear. “Hi.”
Her hands go to my chest, fingers curling into my shirt like she needs to anchor herself. “You’re tense.”
“Work,” I say.
She hums, lips brushing my jaw. “You always say that.”
“It’s true.”
Stella’s mouth curves against my skin. “Mm-hmm. Take your boots off.”
I pause. “Is that an order?”
“It’s a request,” she says, sweetly firm. “Because you’re not tracking dirt into my kitchen.”
My mouth twitches. “Your kitchen.”
“Our kitchen,” she corrects, and kisses the corner of my mouth like she’s sealing it.
I toe my boots off, one at a time, never taking my hands off her. Stella watches me do it with that pleased little smile that makes my blood heat.
“Happy?” I ask.
“Very,” she says, then slides her hands up my neck. “Now come here.”
