The words come into my head unbidden. I called her that while she slept, my cock buried in her mouth. My queen. Jesus Christ, what the fuck was I thinking?
She didn’t hear me. Probably doesn’t remember me fucking her face in the dark, the way she moaned around my cock, still dreaming. Not sure if that makes it better or worse.
Her card table, that flimsy piece of shit I’m amazed hasn’t collapsed yet, is set like something out of a magazine. Not fancy. Sophie doesn’t do fancy. But there’s a plate with a cloth napkin folded beside it, coffee steaming next to a moka pot, cream and sugar on the side.
And Sophie, barefoot in sleep shorts and a tank top, her hair piled on her head, is pulling something out of the oven that is making my mouth water.
She catches me staring. That smile blooms across her face, the one that makes her eyes sparkle like I just handed her the fucking moon. “Good morning.”
I grunt. Can’t trust myself to speak yet. My brain is waging civil war:Leave nowversusstay for breakfastversusbend her over that counter and fuck her until she can’t walk.
“What’s this?” I gesture at the table.
She sets down a pie plate packed with a fluffy yellow egg dish exploding with peppers, onions, spinach, mushrooms.
“That’s an egg frittata, kind of like an Italian omelette—”
“I know what a frittata is, princess.” I can’t help the smirk that pulls at my mouth. “But is yours any good, is the question?”
She bends to put a piece of frittata on the plate and I can see straight down her shirt.
“Sit. Find out.”
Between her tits and the food, I’m fucked. The God damn decision of whether to leave or stay isn’t mine to make. I drop into the chair.
“There’s also some panettone French toast.” She sets down another plate, golden-brown slices dusted with powdered sugar, butter melting into the ridges.
I freeze, fork halfway to the frittata. “You baked panettone this morning?”
She laughs. “No, but I had some leftover, and it’s a good way to use it up.”
I serve myself, stabbing into the frittata first. The fork sinks through like butter. I shove it in my mouth and— “Oh myGod.”
The moan rips out of me before I can stop it. Creamy eggs, perfectly seasoned, vegetables that still have crisp, some kind of cheese that’s sharp and salty and melts on my tongue. It’s…. FUCK. It’s…. “Amazing.”
I’m already loading my fork again, shoveling it in like I haven’t eaten in days. “You need to teach my cook how to make this. Don’t get me wrong: Lucia makes amazing stuff but this is—”
I don’t even finish the sentence, too busy groaning around another mouthful.
“Your paid girl who cooks for you not bringing it the way you’d like?” Sophie’s voice has a teasing edge I haven’t heard before. When I glance up, she’s watching me over the rim of her coffee cup, one eyebrow arched, a small smile playing at her lips.
I narrow my eyes at her. “Are you lobbying to get wifed up again, princess?”
“Just asking a question.” She looks away, but her smile deepens.
I should get up. Should walk out right fucking now before this gets any more domestic. But I’m hungry—starving, actually—and this food is un-fucking-believable.
I make a deal with myself: focus on the food only. Don’t look at her. Don’t think about how she made all this for me. Don’t think about how her ass looked bouncing on my cock last night or how she whispered my name when I spanked her.
Just. Eat.
I stuff my face, groaning with every bite, my eyes closing involuntarily. The panettone French toast is somehow even better than the frittata. It’s custardy in the middle, crispy on the edges, with a hint of citrus and vanilla that makes me want to settle in and never leave.
She blushes watching me eat as she sips her coffee. Just watching me eat makes this woman happy. What the fuck?
My phone buzzes. Matti’s name lights up the screen. I glance between the phone and my plate. Once. Twice. Fuck it.
I put the phone down and inhale the rest of my food like a man possessed, barely chewing, just shoveling it in and groaning like Sophie’s giving me the blowjob of a lifetime.
