“You did the cinnamon,” she croaked, voice wrecked from sleep. “Look at you. My little domestic champion.”
I huffed a laugh and dragged a hand down my face. “Don’t start.”
She giggled—a girlish, sleepy little sound that damn near made me melt—and then narrowed her eyes in that bratty way that always meant trouble. “Tu es… mon mari du café. My husband of the coffee.”
I grinned. “That’s not how grammar works, love.”
“Je suis tired,” she muttered. “Shut up and take the compliment.” She sipped and made a pleased little noise that went straight to my dick. Her eyes fluttered shut again as she leaned back against the pillows, mug balanced in one hand, blanket still tucked under her arms. The love bites on her skin were more prominent against the crisp white bedding.
“You steamed the oat milk,” she added smugly, cracking one eye open to look at me. “You did the real cream. I cantastethe pistachio.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Who are you?” she whispered, clutching the mug with both hands like it was her soulmate. “And what have you done with the emotionally constipated feral street rat I fell in love with?”
“I’m still here, and I’ll throw you in the ocean.”
“You won’t. I’m fragile. And you love me.”
She said it so casually, so sleepily, like a fact as obvious as the sun rising. But my chest still squeezed around it.
“I do love you,” I said softly. “And you’re not fragile. Don’t pretend like you are.”
Aurélie cracked a grin, then reached out and curled her fingers around my wrist, tugging me down beside her.
“Then shut up and get back in bed.”
I climbed back in, settling beside her, one hand instinctively finding her thigh beneath the blanket. Before I could sayanything, she sipped again, then leaned her head back against the headboard and gave me a cocky little smirk.
“You are now mon petit barista en chaleur.”
I cocked a brow. “Did you just call me your horny little barista?”
She shrugged one shoulder, cozying deeper under the covers, which were annoyingly high, just enough to cover her breasts—taunting me with the memory of how many times I’d kissed, sucked, and bitten my way down her body last night. Hours of wrecking her while she begged me not to stop and took everything I gave her and then some. Yet somehow, I still wasn’t fucking satisfied. My cock twitched, hardening under the blanket like it hadn’t already gotten everything it wanted. Spoiled bastard.
“If the coffee fits,” she purred.
“You’re simply mad, Auri.”
“No, I’m simplylovely. And you, mon amour, are simplyslutty.”
“Aye, you woke up spicy this morning.”
She grinned, all teeth and sleepy brat mischief. “I’m spicy, but you’re,” she lifted her mug for emphasis, “my creamy little slut.”
I blinked. “I’m sorry—what the fuck?”
“You heard me,” she said, delighting in herself like it was the most romantic thing in the world instead of, ye know, a full psychological assault at nine in the morning. “You know what helps with spice? Cream. So basically… you’re my sexy milk boy.”
I let out a startled laugh, borderline unhinged. I dragged a hand over my face and moved fast, rolling toward her and straddling her hips in one motion. The sheets pulled tight beneath my knees, cocooning her in place, my hands gripping the carved wooden edge of the bed on either side of her head.
She didn’t flinch. Just stayed exactly where she was—sprawled like royalty, spine relaxed into the pillows. The mug was cradled between her hands, tits unapologetically on display, and a fucking smirk blooming across her face like she’d already won.
“You’re absolutely deranged,” I muttered.
“And you’re oat milk daddy,” she added smugly, arching her back just enough to angle her mouth toward mine and brush a kiss across it. It was soft and barely there, like she wasn’t committing verbal war crimes before breakfast.
Some kind of noise mangled in my throat as she pulled back. “Oat milk daddy?”
