I wake up every morning with Megan in my arms.
She’s always curled against my chest, one leg thrown over mine, her hand resting over my heart like she’s checking it’s still beating. Her curls tickle my chin. Her breathing is soft, steady, warm against my throat. I lie there longer than I should, memorizing the feel of her, the curve of her hip under my palm, the way her skin heats where we touch, the quiet sigh she makes when she starts to wake.
This morning is no different.
Sunlight slips through the blinds in thin gold bars, painting stripes across her bare shoulder. She’s gloriously naked as I trace the line of her spine with my fingertip. She stirs, arches into my touch with a sleepy hum.
“Morning,” she mumbles, voice thick with sleep.
“Morning.” I press a kiss to the back of her neck, right where it meets her shoulder. She shivers, presses back against me.
I’m already hard, have been since I woke up with her ass nestled against me. She feels it, rocks back lazily, teasing.
“Already?” she whispers, smile in her voice.
“Always,” I mutter, cupping her breast. My thumb circles her nipple. She gasps, soft and sweet.
We don’t rush.
I roll her onto her back, settle between her thighs. She wraps her legs around my waist, pulls me closer. I kiss her. My hand slips between us, fingers sliding through her slick heat. She’s already wet, ready, arching into my touch.
“Aaron,” she breathes against my mouth.
I push inside her, savoring every inch. She moans, nails digging into my shoulders. We move together, gentle at first, then deeper, harder. The bed creaks softly. Her breath hitches every time I bottom out. I kiss her throat, her collarbone, whisper her name like a prayer.
When she comes, she clenches around me, face buried in my neck. I follow right after, spilling inside her with a low groan, holding her tight like I can keep this moment forever.
We stay tangled afterward, breathing each other in.
She kisses my jaw, the scar, the corner of my mouth. “You’re gonna be the death of me, Aaron Jenkins.”
I smile against her skin. “Good way to go.”
She sits on the counter in my flannel while I cook eggs, bacon, and toast. I stand between her thighs, feeding her bites of bacon between kisses. She steals my coffee, takes a sip, and makes a face.
“Too strong.”
“You like it sweet.”
She grins. “I like you.”
I kiss her again slowly, until the bacon almost burns.
We eat standing up, her on the counter, me between her legs. She feeds me a piece of toast. I lick butter off her thumb. She shivers.
“You’re insatiable,” I mutter.
“You started it.”
After breakfast, we spend the day working on Megan’s investigation. The article is almost ready.
Megan’s fingers fly across the keyboard, weaving together the bank transfers, the emails, the zoning records, the audio clips we’ve verified. I pull more strings, quiet favors from old contacts, satellite images of the land parcels, timelines that match the payments to the approvals.
We’re close.
Too close.
Every time she leans over to show me something, her shoulder presses against mine. Every time I reach past her for a file, my arm brushes her breast. Every time our eyes meet, the air thickens.
