“Or,” she said as she dipped her finger into the syrup. She stuck it into her mouth and sucked, savoring the way Shane’s eyes went hazy with lust. She pulled it out with a lightpop. “We could… reorder the itinerary.”
He chuckled. “You trying to kill my productivity?”
“Your productivity is very productive.” She dipped her finger again, then swiped the sticky syrup across his bottom lip. She licked it off, and his hands tightened reflexively on her hips. “Also, Pete told me he’s fine with a late start.”
Pete, in obvious betrayal, thumped his tail and whined.
“Okay,” Shane said. “But we’re eating first. Shame to let all this food get cold.”
April rolled her eyes. “If you insist.”
The French toast was ridiculous. The conversation was light and silly—Kevin’s plans for Benny once he got back, a hike they wanted to do, whether Benny should be allowed on the couch.
“Alex said he’s already been on the couch,” Shane admitted.
“I knew it.”
He reached for her hand between bites like he always did, thumb riding across her knuckles.
And when the plates were pushed back and the syrup pitcher licked clean, when Pete had been released from his sentinel duties with a promise of a hike later, April took hold of Shane’s T-shirt and tugged.
“Okay,” she said, smiling up at him with the pure, fizzy joy of saying exactly what she wanted. “Now I vote rearranging the itinerary.”
He set his hands at her waist. “Yes, ma’am.”
He kissed her lazily at first, like the morning sun—slow, steady warmth. The kitchen smelled like cinnamon sugar and maple, his scent layered over it. The solid weight of his chest, the steady anchor of his hands. He walked her backward, deepening the kiss until she hit the hallway wall with a soft bump.
“You’re trouble,” she accused.
“The good kind,” he murmured, mouth at her jaw, his smile against her skin.
She couldn’t disagree. He tasted like coffee and sugar and everything sweet. Her blood went molten. She wanted to be playful about it because their moods had risen like sunlight—bright, uncomplicated—but the wanting was also immediate and low and sure.
She nipped his lower lip. He made a sound that melted her knees. “Bedroom?” he asked.
“Mmm-mm.” She slid her hands to the hem of his T-shirt. “Too far.”
His laugh was pure delight. “Sofa? Floor? Against this very cooperative wall?”
She flattened her palm over his heart. “I love how you think.”
“Say it again,” he said, soft.
She did, because it never got old. “I love you.”
He stilled, then kissed her like the words lived in his mouth too. “I love you, April.”
She was happy, dizzy with it. Not careful or wondering or braced. Justhappy.
“Wall,” she decided, because there was a wicked little thrill in being a grown woman in her own home making out in the hallway at ten in the morning. “And then bed, because I like sprawling.”
“Copy that.” His hands slid under her shirt and closed around the backs of her thighs, lifting. She went up with a surprised laugh and wrapped around him, trusting him the way her body had learned to trust him—without argument. He bracketed her against the wall, careful, his forearms taking his weight, the press of his cock right where she wanted it.
He kissed her mouth, the corner of her smile, down the line of her throat. “Tell me what you want,” he said into her skin.
“You,” she said simply, shocking herself with how easy it was to say the things she used to tuck into a box in her mind. “I want to play. I want… fast and slow. I want to feel you being happy because I’m happy.”
He groaned like she’d granted a secret wish. “Fast and slow is my specialty.”
