“Didn’t think I needed to,” I manage, but my breath catches as he hooks his arms around my thighs, spreading me open, yanking me toward him.
The coffee machine clicks off, forgotten, as his mouth replaces the night’s tenderness with raw hunger. His tongue drags through my slickness before circling my clit with just enough pressure. My hands fly to his hair, clutching, tugging, grinding myself against the surge of sensation.
“Jay—oh my god—”
He groans against me, the vibration shooting straight through my core. His grip tightens, holding me in place when my hips jerk forward, when I try to chase more. He doesn’t rush it. He licks, sucks, and flicks, every move calculated and seductively teasing me right on the edge before pulling back to blow cool air against my swollen clit.
“You taste better than coffee,” he rasps, and then his tongue is inside me, thrusting deep before sliding back up to circle my clit again.
My head tips back, hitting the cabinet with a dull thud. The world narrows to the wet sounds of his mouth and the hot pressure winding through my body, tighter and tighter until I’m shattering, crying out his name as I come undone all over his tongue.
He doesn’t stop, only easing when I sag against the counter, boneless, panting. When he finally stands, his mouth glistening, he steals a kiss that tastes of coffee and me.
“Good morning,” he says, lips curving against mine.
Words have left my brain; they’ve officially been fucked out of me. He kisses me again, deeper this time, and I can tastemyself on his tongue. Heat coils low in my belly all over again, traitorous and eager.
“You’re supposed to be making coffee,” I mumble against his mouth.
“Coffee’s been ready.” His hands tighten on my thighs, dragging me closer to the edge of the counter until his hardness presses against me through his boxers. “I just need to get your tea from the refrigerator.”
I should say thank you, but instead, my hand slips beneath the waistband, wrapping around him, hot and thick and already pulsing for me. His groan rumbles deep in his chest, and the sound alone makes my body thrum with fresh need.
“Fuck, Liv,” he pants, head tipping back as my fist works over him. “You really want round three right here?”
I smirk, emboldened by the way he’s unraveling in my hand. “You started it. And I’m pretty sure this would count as round four… and a half.”
For a moment, he just groans, hips jerking into my grip, his eyes dark and hungry. But then he catches my wrist, stilling me, his chest rising and falling hard as if he’s physically reining himself in.
“As much as I want to throw you down and forget the rest of the day,” he murmurs, kissing the inside of my wrist, “I need to feed you first.”
I blink, caught between wrecked and incredulous. “You’re serious?”
His grin is wicked, but his voice stays steady. “Dead serious.”
And just like that, he’s pulling me off the counter, setting me gently on my feet, smoothing down the hem of his T-shirt still clinging to my body. His hands linger at my hips a beat longer than necessary, his mouth brushing my temple before he lets go.
“Sit,” he orders, nodding to the table. “I’ll make you something.”
And he does, all while sporting a very impressive and mouthwatering bulge in his underwear. My eyes keep darting down against my better judgment, and he knows it—his smirk gives him away every time he turns from the stove.
As I watch him, the need for him never dims. If anything, it sharpens, curling deep inside me, searing. It’s not just the sight of him half-dressed, it’s the way he moves around the kitchen like I’m worth the effort. Like feeding me is as natural as touching me. And maybe that’s what unsettles me most—because part of me still whispers that I have made a mistake, and I’m going to ruin the one thing that’s stable in my life. My skin prickles, my chest tightens, torn between giving in and pulling back, but the ache of wanting him drowns out everything else.
I look away, pretending to study the scratches in his table instead of the man cooking for me like it’s the simplest thing in the world. The scrape of a pan pulls me back, and suddenly he’s setting a plate in front of me, an omelet with veggies and cheese. My stomach growls in appreciation, loud enough to make him chuckle.
“Guess I win,” he says, sliding into the chair across from me, fork in hand.
“Win what?” I ask around my first bite, which is unfairly good.
He takes a bite of his own food. “Got you moaning twice before breakfast, and now I’ve got you drooling over my cooking.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks, but I can’t stop the laugh that spills out. “I always drool over your cooking.”
He hums around food, then I track the movement as his throat ripples around a swallow, letting my focus trail down to his collarbones, then his chest, the scattering of hair that’s so damn sexy, and my fork stalls halfway to my mouth. God, he’s unfair. All broad shoulders and lean muscle, skin still marked faintly from my nails. I drag my eyes back up quickly, but not quick enough; his grin tells me he caught every second.
“I like it when you stare at me,” he muses.
I shove another bite of omelet into my mouth to avoid answering, cheeks burning. The laugh that slips out feels unsteady, like I don’t quite know what to do with it. Probably because I don’t.
