His head tilts my way, eyes narrowing. ‘Who are you, and what have you done with Taylor Stone?’
I shrug, forcing a lightness I’m struggling to feel. ‘I read somewhere that stress is bad for fertility.’
‘Stress is bad, full stop.’
‘And overthinking isn’t conducive to baby-making.’
‘Explains half the world’s accidents…’
‘You know what I mean.’ I give him a shove, keeping my voice breezy, when all I really want is for this new level of intimacy to continue. ‘Stressing about rules is a waste of energy.’
‘You don’t need to tell me twice.’
‘Good.’
I search his gaze, bracing for signs I’ve overstepped – with this, with staying over, the memory of that first night in Italy rearing its ugly head – but I find none.
He looks relaxed. Content. Happy, even.
It’s like falling apart last night and coming back together again shifted something between us – altered the dynamic, opened up a bond that didn’t exist before.
And now I know I’m talking crazy. Dynamics? Bonds? Morning sex has clearly gone to my head. Or maybe that’s my heart.
‘Still,’ I add softly, determined to keep my feet on the ground, ‘if you ever want space, or something’s off, just tell me.’
‘That swings both ways, Baby Girl.’
I nod. ‘Agreed.’
Though space is the last thing I crave…
‘Now that’s settled… breakfast?’ He stretches out beneath me, every muscle flexing distractingly. ‘Coffee and a protein shake. And if you’re really lucky, I’ll let you lick the foam off the lid.’
I bark a laugh. ‘Your cupboards are as bare as your home, then?’
‘Are you insulting my home?’
Before I can answer, he’s on me, hands everywhere all at once, tickling me. Axel. Tickling me?!
I squeal, laughing, trying to fight him off. ‘Stop-it-stop-it-stop-it?—!’
‘Bet you wish you had a safe word now.’ He smirks, pinning my hands above my head, eyes glittering down at me.
There’s so much I want to read in those rich brown eyes that it takes me a second to draw a breath – another to say, ‘No.’
He stills. Just for a beat. Something flickering in his gaze. Then he’s rolling off me.
‘Come on,’ he says, swatting my arse. ‘Shower. Then I’ll see what I can scrape together.’
I quickly learn shower is code fororal, because the moment I step under the spray, he has me pressed to the black stone tiles, steam curling around us as his mouth claims me. His tongue like a power tool, and I can’t catch a breath.
My climax echoes off the walls, and he chuckles against my skin.
‘That’s my girl.’
Then he’s up and in me, driving home with the urgency of a man possessed – and so long as I’m the one possessing him, I’m more than fine with it.
By the time he slides me a coffee over the polished concrete island in his kitchen, it’s nearly noon, and I can’t stop smiling.
