Garrik doesn’t answer—just nuzzles into my hair and breathes me in, like he’s trying to memorize this too.
And then, softly:
“Think you’re ready to try again, honeybee?”
Garrik’s hand slips a little lower.
Just a little. Barely more than a shift of fingertips across my hip. But it sends a slow, lazy shiver rolling through me anyway.
I stretch against him like a cat, sighing when his palm slides over the front of my thigh. His touch is warm, reverent—possessive in a way that makes my breath hitch.
“You’re dangerous in the morning,” I murmur, voice rough from sleep. “You know that?”
His chuckle is pure sin, low and quiet against the curve of my neck. “You’re the one who met me in the garden last night in nothing but a sweater.”
“And whose fault is it that I’m still wearing said sweater and nothing else?”
He hums again, nosing at the back of my shoulder. “Might have something to do with the way you taste. I got a little distracted.”
I laugh, but it breaks on a breath when he trails kisses down my spine. His hand coasts further, fingers brushing between my legs. I’m already warm there. Already aching. I shift, giving him better access, and he groans against my skin.
“I want to be inside you this time,” he says, voice low and reverent. “I want you to feel everything.”
“Please,” I whisper. “I’m ready now. I swear, Garrik?—”
“Breakfast’s ready!”
Flora’s voice slices through the still morning like a warhorn. It’s distant but clear—coming from the porch outside, projection unmistakably cheery.
I freeze.
Garrik goes still behind me, his entire body tense in the stunned silence that follows.
“Was that…” I begin.
“Flora,” he says, grim. “That was Flora.”
We’re both quiet for a long, horrible second.
Then I bury my face in the pillow and let out the loudest, most defeated groan in the galaxy.
Garrik laughs—helpless and strangled and full of that mix of exasperation and affection that only comes from living with loud, nosy women whoabsolutelyknow what you’re doing in the cottage you swore wasn’t being used for anything scandalous.
“She definitely knows,” I mutter, rolling onto my back and covering my face with both hands. “Sheabsolutelydid that on purpose.”
“She always does,” Garrik says dryly.
I peek at him between my fingers. He’s grinning. Sleep-tousled and bare-chested, one antenna curled around the edge of his forehead like it’s trying to hide.
Gods, he’stoo cutewhen he’s embarrassed.
I can’t believe I never noticed until now. Ten years thinking we were just friends…and he’s the prettiest, sexiest, hottest guy I’ve ever known.
“You’re not off the hook,” I warn him, voice still husky. “Soon as we get back?—”
“Oh, I know,” he promises, leaning over to kiss the corner of my mouth. “Trust me, Iris. I’m counting the minutes.”
By the time we make it to the orchard path, I’m clutching Garrik’s arm to keep from wobbling. Every step is a slow, sweet reminder of what he did to me last night—and how many times Icame for him. My thighs ache in the best possible way. My inner muscles feel overstretched, humming with every movement. I’m not even really sore…justsatisfied.
