“You already do.” I turned in his arms, looped my arms around his neck. “Unhinged as you are.”
“Unhinged for you.”
“Stop saying that.”
“Never.”
I made the pancakes. He watched, occasionally getting in the way, occasionally stealing bites of batter until I threatened him with a spatula. We were disgustingly domestic. I loved it.
We sat down to eat, pancakes with cream and strawberries, because I was feeling fancy. Caelan took one bite and groaned. The best thing he’d ever tasted, apparently.
“You like that?” I asked, amused.
“My mate made this. I’d like it if it was burnt charcoal.”
“It’s not burnt charcoal.”
“Even better.”
We kept getting distracted. Our feet tangled under the table. Our eyes meeting and holding too long. His hand reaching over to brush a bit of cream from the corner of my mouth, his thumb lingering on my lip.
Then he dipped his finger in the cream and deliberately smeared it across his own chest.
“Oops,” he said, not even trying to sound sincere.
I stared at him. “Did you just...”
“Clumsy of me.”
“You did that on purpose.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He looked down at the streak of white across his pec. “How unfortunate. I suppose someone should clean that up.”
I knew I should roll my eyes, tell him to get a napkin. Be a mature, reasonable adult about this.
Instead, I leaned across the table and licked it off.
The moment my tongue touched his skin, Caelan’s control shattered.
One second I was leaning across the breakfast table, licking cream from his chest. The next, he was on his feet, hands gripping my waist, lifting me onto the table.
“Caelan, the pancakes...”
“Fuck the pancakes.”
But even as he said it, he was reaching back to grab the plates, setting them carefully on the countertop behind him. I watched, bemused, as he refused to let even a single strawberry fall to the floor.
“Can’t waste what my mate made for me,” he growled, turning back to me. “Now. Where were we?”
His hands were already under my shirt, pushing it up, exposing my breasts. He grabbed the can of whipped cream from where it sat on the table and squirted a generous amount directly onto my nipples.
“What are you...”
“My turn.”
And then his mouth was on me, licking and sucking the cream off my breasts while I writhed beneath him. The cold of the cream, the heat of his tongue, the contrast was maddening. I arched into him, gasping, my hands fisting in his hair.
“Delicious,” he murmured against my skin. “But I know another thing that tastes even better.”
