She nodded serenely. “Mhmm. Horny little barista fiancé. Sexy milk boy. Oat milk daddy. Don’t lie. You love them all.”
I stared down at her like she’d grown horns. “I love fucking you, not being called oat milk daddy.”
She laughed, and something in it lodged itself under my ribs like it had always belonged there. Like maybethatwas my favorite sound in the world. Not the sound of her coming—though that was now a very close second.
I catalogued that detail for later, like it was gospel.
“Didn’t hear any complaints the last time I called youDaddy.”
Her voice had that husky and playful edge now, the kind of low tease that never failed to go straight to my nervous system. She licked a tiny ring of foam from the mug’s rim, then dragged her tongue over her bottom lip. I wanted to taste it. All of it. The pistachio cream, the smugness, the way she always made me lose my goddamn mind. The taste of her against my mouth while she begged like it was her destiny.
Desire surged through me like an electric current rerouting everything I thought I needed to function.
Fuck.
She knew exactly what she was doing.
“Aurélie.”
She giggled sweetly, then ducked under my arm to set the mug on the side table. Before I could react, she pounced, tackling me back onto the mattress, pinning me beneath her with alarming swiftness.
“Oof—Christ, lass?—”
“Sorry,” she purred, now straddling me, gloriously naked, the morning sun kissing every inch of her golden skin. Her ring flashed as she braced her hands on my chest. “My English is broken after you fucked me seven ways to the, uh, hallway? No. Balcony? Hall…uhhh…”
I blinked up at her. My feral, filthy, French little wife-to-be. “Sorry, love. But what the fuck were you trying to say?” I grabbed her hips and rolled her bare cunt over the length of my cock, still thick and twitching beneath the fabric of my briefs.
She gasped, breath catching hard in her throat, then let out a guttural little noise, all exhale and faux frustration. “Putain de merde,” she muttered, blinking down at me and pointing to the doors leading into the living area. “That’s where you bent me over. There. Right fucking there—against the kitchen counter, like a caveman.”
“Excuse me?” I asked, hips flexing up into her.
She moaned dramatically and collapsed forward, hair spilling into my face. “C’est toujours les Écossais.”It’s always the Scots.“With your ridiculous accents and muscular thighs and corruption kinks—mon Dieu.” She lifted her head just enough to pout at me, voice syrupy and obscene. “That accent should be illegal. And that damn dimple. It’s unfair. You’re a walking hazard to the female species. You open your mouth and my brain turns to marshmallow goo.”
Marshmallow goo.
Bloody fucking hell.
Onlyshewould say something like that—like it was the most logical, devastating truth in the world. And somehow, it undid me worse than any filthy thing she’d ever moaned beneath me. It was soher. Whimsical and wicked. Silly and sharp. Romantic in the most catastrophic fucking way.
God, I loved her.
I stared up at her like she was sent from hell. And maybe she was. But she was mine.
A slow smile tugged at my lips. “What did I tell you the last time you insulted my Scottish bloodline?” I pushed up on my elbows. “You pay the price.”
She just smiled innocently, then rolled her hips slowly over my cock again, dragging her slick cunt across the shape of me with deliberate, sinful rhythm. I hissed, head falling back.
“I said thank you for my coffee, mon amour.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“You can’t punish me if I’m on top.”
“Want to test that theory?” I slid one hand beneath her ass and let my fingers graze between her cheeks, featherlight at first. Then I pressed a little harder, not breaching, but enough so she’d feel it for what it was—a threat and a promise all in one.
She reared back, all wide eyes and dramatics in a way that made me throb. “Tu es diabolique.”
I laughed, begrudgingly shifting my hands away—because I couldn’t fucking think straight, and Ididhave plans for the day. Sort of. “Baby, did you flirt like this before me?”
