Moving as stealthily as I can, I scoop Sophie into my arms. She stays tucked into me as I carry her to her bedroom, placing her gently on the bed. When she doesn’t wake up, I breathe a sigh of relief and double check that her windows are secure.
The house is cold and quiet. I stand over Sophie and pull the covers over her as the light from the window shines on her face. I drag my fingertip over her cheek gently. She sighs in her sleep and rolls away from me, the covers falling away to reveal her ass in those little sleep shorts. I blow out a breath and shake my head. Fucking distracting is what she is.
Yanking her blanket back over her, I get the hell out of her room before I do something we’ll both regret. Or something I’ll regret. She’d probably be into it….
Stop. Thinking. About. It.
I pace her tiny shoebox of an apartment. Through the kitchen to the main living area bisected by the chipped counter, navigating around the shitty dining room table and the broken down furniture. Jesus Christ, this really is a shithole.
The hallway is so small it can barely be called that. I wander into the bathroom and absentmindedly open drawers.
Her perfume sits on the counter. I uncap it and inhale deeply. Nice. That’s the floral scent. Simple and soft like her. Face lotions and washes line up neatly. She doesn’t have much makeup.
A cabinet reveals new toothbrushes, tiny toothpastes, travel soaps and shampoos. For guests or does she have a parade of men through here? For some reason, my jaw clenches at the thought.
Another drawer has vitamins and supplements and—hello—a round container of birth control pills. Good to know. Not that I’d fuck her pussy anyway, but still, good intel.
Everything is organized. Clean. She lives simply, without the avalanche of products and frilly bullshit most women collect. It’s still pretty though; you can tell a woman lives here. Minimalist. Comfortable. Reminds me of the way Lucia keeps her kitchen.
I wander back to the living area and the couch with the vindictive spring and head to the fridge. The leftover antipasto and pesto from earlier is in front, and I pull out the containers, eating the food cold, standing at the counter in the dark.
Fuck. It’s even better cold somehow, the true test of good food. I groan out loud, shoveling it in my mouth like I haven’t eaten in days. Sophie’s a fucking incredible cook. Rivals Lucia, and that’s not something I say lightly. I’ve never had food better than Lucia’s.
When I finish, I wash the dishes as quietly as possible, leaving them on the counter to dry. I survey the little apartment then collapse on the torture device she calls a couch and wait for sunrise.
**
When light finally bleeds through the curtains, I finally allow myself to relax. I stretch out on the couch and turn on my side to avoid the spring that’s been jabbing my kidney all night.
A soft noise from the kitchen forces my eyes open, but otherwise, I don’t move. Sophie tiptoes into the kitchen, and I let my eyes drift half-closed so I can watch her through my lashes.
She frowns when she spots the dishes I left drying. Then she notices the empty food containers and realizes I ate her leftovers and cleaned up. A shy smile spreads across her face slowly. She’s fucking glowing. I’ve never met a woman so absurdly easy to make happy.
She turns toward the couch, studies me. I keep my breathing even, pretending to sleep, until she goes to the fridge. Pulling out eggs, vegetables, fresh herbs, she chops everything with practiced precision, movements quick and efficient. With a click and a flare, the gas burner ignites and she heats a pan while whipping eggs into submission then pours them in with a satisfying sizzle. The smell is incredible.
As the eggs cooks, she sets to work packing herself a lunch. It’s soothing to watch her work. She’s so methodical, focused, intent. I can feel my muscles relaxing the same way they used to when I’d watch Lucia cook.
I can’t stop staring at her mouth: full, soft, wet. Honestly, her huge ass usually monopolizes my attention, but she keeps sucking her bottom lip between her teeth when she concentrates, and it’s just so fucking—
I squeeze my eyes shut. I need to get laid. Sophie is nowhere near my type, not even close. I go for flashy, aggressive, overtly sexual. Women who advertise availability with low cut shirts and lower standards that make the path from hello to goodbye with a quick stop in bed much quicker.
When I sneak a peek again, the soft morning light reflects off her dark hair, and the way she bends over the counter draws my attention to the long lines of her neck.
I flashback to standing behind her at that counter last night, the way she felt between my arms, her ass pressed against me. The way she looked at me when she realized how hard that ass made me.
Fuck.
I yank myself back to the present. “What are you making?”
She squeals and drops the knife with a clatter. “Oh my God! I didn’t know you were awake!” She exhales hard, laughing.
Despite myself, I grin. “You alright?”
“Of course.” She collects herself and gives me a bright smile. “Did you sleep well?”
“No. Your couch sucks, princess. You need a new one.”
Genuine distress clouds her features. “Oh no! I’m so sorry. Yeah, it’s not great. I almost never sit on that couch, so I wasn’t thinking when I set you up there. I should have given you my bed.”
