I lean in, close enough to feel his breath ghost against my lips. My heart is hammering, my sarcasm nowhere to be found. I just want to taste him awake.
So, I kiss him.
At first, it’s sweet. His lips twitch under mine, like maybe his dream is upgrading into something filthy. I smile against his mouth, already imagining the smug comments I’ll make when he?—
Lucky lurches awake like I’ve tasered him.
“What the fuck—!” His whole body jerks as he lurches away from me, arm flailing. He almost knocks me straight off the bed. Only, we’re tangled together, so my leg is caught between his, and his knee clocks me in the crotch. I throw a hand out, gripping his forearm for dear life before he can launch me into the nightstand.
“Relax,” I hiss, half laughing, half clinging for dear life. “It’s just me, not a hitman.”
His eyes are wide, wild, green fire in the dim light. “Holy fuck, Willow—” He literally has his hand on his heart like I gavehim a heart attack. “I don’t wake up with people in my bed. You scared the shit out of me.”
But I hardly hear a word he says, because that’s when I feel it.
Pressed against my leg, which is locked across his lap.
Something long. Something rock hard. Something wicked and impressive.
Morning wood.
“Well, good morning to you too, Saint Shade.” A slow grin spreads across my face.
Lucky’s eyes go twice as big, his entire face blanching. He scrambles back against the headboard, horrified. He snatches a pillow and tries to angle it in front of himself. “Fucking hell. This is—this is not…” he huffs, flustered in a way I have never had the pleasure of witnessing. “Woman,” he growls, narrowing his eyes at me.
“Relax,thatis nothing to be embarrassed about.” I’m cackling now, full witch-cackle. “You just upgraded my morning. Consider this my daily tarot pull: The Upright Knight of Wands.”
He groans louder, dragging both hands down his face, muttering curses. His ears are red. His neck is red. His entire existence is red. “I was going to make you breakfast, but now? Now I’m just going to die.”
I grab at the pillow in his lap, pretending to take a peek. Lucky slaps a hand back down on it, cutting off my show. “You’re embarrassed? Lucky, half the Strip would pay for this view.”
He glares at me, but it’s ruined by how hard he’s blushing. “You’re the actual devil.”
“And you,” I shoot back, biting my lip, “are ridiculously hot, even when you’re mortified.”
“I’m making breakfast,” he announces, voice gravelly, like it’s a military decree. He scrambles out of the bed, taking the pillow with him. “I’m calling a do-over. We’re starting fresh. No more… morning incidents.”
I smirk, stretching like a cat in his bed, sheet sliding down just far enough to make him choke on his own tongue. “Incidents? That’s what we’re calling it? Because I’d label it a highlight.”
He points at me, scandalized, then immediately drops his hand because he realizes he’s pointing while still… pitching a tent. The pillow helps very little when it’s hovering a good eight inches away from his lap. “Shut up, Vale. Eggs. Bacon. Toast. Normal. We’re normal.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” I prop myself up on my elbows. “You and I will never be normal.”
He simply mutters curses and stalks to the kitchen.
I watch him go, admiring the way his muscles shift, lean and taut, and how ridiculously domestic he looks in the morning light spilling through the penthouse windows. Like Saint Shade just morphed into a househusband with criminal tendencies.
I clear my throat before I say something stupid likemarry me.Instead, I go with, “Can I use your shower while you work your culinary magic?”
He glances back, and that grin—devilish, unhinged—spreads across his face. “Yeah. Just… don’t hex my waffle iron while you’re out of my sight.”
I raise a brow. “Waffles are sacred, I would never do such a heinous thing.”
The snort that comes out of him could cure all of my bad days.
The shower roars to life, steam filling the glass stall in seconds. I step under the spray and let it pound into me, scalding heat sinking into sore muscles. Killing a man is a lot of work, and my body is paying for it today.
But as I stand beneath the hot water, naked, just thirty feet away from the man who turns me on like no other, I brace my hands against the tile, and wait. For the familiar weight to creepback into my chest. For Porter’s shadow to climb back onto my shoulders. For shame to coil around my ribs, the way it always does after I get too close to any guy.
