I flip us fast—too fast for him to brace—and pin him to the mattress, one hand planted beside his head, the other still gripping his wrist.
“You’re seriously trying to start something at six-thirty in the morning?” I growl.
His grin widens. “You say that like you’re not into it.”
His eyes sparkle. “I like morning wood. It’s motivational.”
I shake my head, but I’m already leaning closer. His body fits under mine too well. His mouth looks too good. And I’m so far gone it’s pathetic.
“You make it really fucking hard to be the responsible one,” I mutter.
“You like it,” he whispers, arching just enough to remind me how reckless I could be for him.
“After breakfast,” I growl, mouth brushing his throat. “I’m not fucking you on an empty stomach.”
He laughs, breathless and delighted. “Is that a promise?”
I press a kiss to his pulse. “No. It’s a warning.”
I shift onto my side, brushing hair from his forehead as he blinks up at me, still warm and half-drunk on sleep and whatever spell we’ve been spinning around each other since last night.
He stretches, groans, and then nuzzles into my chest with a smirk that’s entirely too satisfied for this early in the morning.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I mutter.
“Like what?” he murmurs, mouth grazing my collarbone. “Like I’m in love?”
I freeze.
But he laughs—light and teasing—and kisses my jaw like it’s nothing. As though he didn’t just detonate my heart with a throwaway line. I clear my throat, needing air. Needing food. Needing anything that keeps me from dragging him under me again and forgetting the rest of the day exists.
“Come on,” I say, climbing out of bed. My feet hit the cold floor, but I’m already grabbing a pair of sweatpants and tugging them on. “Lesson number two.”
Luke props himself up on his elbows, the sheet barely covering his hips. “Lesson two?”
I turn and hold out my hand. “Cooking. Real breakfast. You’re not leaving until you know how to make something besides cereal.”
He grins and slides his fingers into mine, letting me pull him up, all warm limbs and sleepy eyes. “Is it too late to fake being bad at cooking if it gets me breakfast in bed?”
“Extremely.”
We make it to the kitchen barefoot. I hand him a sweatshirt—one of mine from the back of my couch—and he shrugs it on without thinking. It drowns him, and I can’t stop staring.
“So…” he says, dragging out the word as I start pulling ingredients from the fridge, “what are we making?”
“Omelets.”
“Omelets,” he repeats, suspicious. “You’re sure this isn’t just an elaborate plan to get me to eat vegetables?”
“It’s a plan to keep you alive,” I say, grabbing the eggs and motioning for him to get the cutting board. “You’re doing the chopping.”
He groans but obeys. “I hope you know I’m trusting you with my life here. I don’t even function until ten.”
“You kissed me awake. That’s fully functioning in my book.”
He smirks. “Yeah, well, your book’s got some steamy chapters, Daddy.”
I reach for the pan, bumping his hip lightly with mine. “You do know you’re distracting as hell, right?”
