I cross the kitchen in five strides, not giving myself time to think about what I’m doing. My body presses against her back, the heat of her seeping through that thin silk. I place my hands on the counter on either side of her, caging her against the kitchen island.
I lean in close, my lips nearly brushing her ear. “Still pissed at me?”
She stiffens against me but doesn’t pull away. “What do you think?” Her voice is ice, but there’s heat underneath it.
“I fucking apologized,” I say. “Multiple times. For what it’s worth, which probably isn’t much, but I meant it.”
“Apologies are just words, Ryder.” She grips her coffee mug tighter, knuckles turning white. “You used me to hurt my father.”
“Yeah, I did. And I’m sorry for that.” I inhale the scent of her shampoo, something floral that makes my head swim. “But if you’re so goddamn angry, why’d you come back from your place looking thoroughly fucked?”
She tries to turn, but I hold my position, keeping her caged between my arms.
“That’s different,” she whispers.
“Is it?” I press closer, my chest against her back. “You’re pissed at him too. At all of us. But you still let him touch you.”
Her breath catches. “It’s complicated.”
“No shit.” I laugh softly. “Look, I get it. You’re allowed to be angry and still want us. That’s the fucking mess we’re in.”
She finally turns to face me with her coffee mug clutched between us like a shield. Her eyes meet mine, defiant and vulnerable all at once.
“I hate that I want you,” she admits. “I hate that my body reacts every time one of you touches me.”
I grin at her confession. “Good. At least we’re on the same page about something.”
Her eyes flash with irritation, but I catch the slight quirk at the corner of her mouth. That’s the thing about Cora—she fights her own reactions as much as she fights us.
“You hungry?” I ask, shifting topics with deliberate casualness. “I could make breakfast.”
“You cook breakfast too? Not just pasta?”
“Princess, I cook everything.” I step back, giving her space but keeping my eyes locked on hers. “It’s my one marketable skill besides gambling and looking pretty.”
That earns me a reluctant smile. “Modest too.”
“Never claimed to be.” I reach past her for a coffee mug, letting my arm brush against hers. “What’ll it be? I make a mean Eggs Benedict. Or pancakes if you’re feeling basic.”
She sips her coffee, studying me over the rim. “Did you learn to cook in prison or something?”
I laugh, the sound echoing in the kitchen. “No prison record, sweetheart. My mom taught me. Said no son of hers was going to be helpless in a kitchen.”
“Smart woman.”
“The smartest.” I move around the counter, opening the fridge to survey the contents. “So, what’s the verdict?”
Cora sets her mug down and leans against the counter, the silk of her nightgown shifting against her curves. “Surprise me.”
I close the fridge and move toward her in one fluid motion. “Careful what you wish for.”
I catch her waist with one hand, pulling her closer. She doesn’t resist, though her breath catches. My other hand tilts her chin up, and I press my lips against hers—gentle at first, then with more heat as she responds.
Breaking the kiss, I lean back and wink. “That’s just the appetizer.”
Cora laughs, the sound catching her by surprise. It transforms her face, softening the edges of anger she’s been holding onto. I can’t help but grin in response, savoring my small victory.
“You’re impossible,” she says, but there’s no bite to her words.
