Oh, right, the butter and coffee.
“What time is it?” I ask. Thank god, he ended the kiss before tongues got involved because my mouth stinks.
He takes out his phone to check. “Almost seven. I found some sweats that might not fall right off of you and a T-shirt. They’re there,” he points at the corner of the bed. “You can head back to your apartment after breakfast.”
I nod. Shit, is Matt a morning person? I almost feel a little less devastated by the fact that this might be the only time I’m in his home this early. The keyword being ‘almost’.
He starts to leave, and I get a tiny glimpse of that ass before he turns again. I snap my eyes up.
He smiles, knowing. Ah, well, no shame in appreciating a work of art.
“There’s a spare toothbrush under the sink,” he winks.
Wow, does the guy read minds or something?
I take my time in the bathroom, getting myself up and ready to face the temptation that is Mathew Hale.
We have so much work to do. I can’t let my mind wander off. Not today.
Matt’s T-shirt falls midway down my thighs, and his sweats slip down my waist even with the drawstrings tightly tied. I knot them a couple of times and send a little prayer to the universe that they’ll hold.
When I finally make it to the living room, Matt is completely focused on a pan on the stove, his brows furrowed. There! I missed that frown. At least when it’s not about anything serious.
Still no shirt in sight.
“C’mon, dude! You’re a firefighter. Why aren’t you wearinga shirt in the kitchen?” So, those words just left my mouth. I miss the silent, sleepy Oliver from fifteen minutes ago.
Matt looks up. The frown disappears, but the dimples make a grand entrance. He takes me in slowly, his eyes dragging over me. “You worried about my safety, Sunshine?” he drawls, his hand still swirling the spatula over the pan.
I blush at the endearment despite his teasing tone. I walk into the kitchen, and his eyes follow, hands still at work.
“Not you, just the abs you’ve clearly spent years in making,” I needle.
When I’m finally close enough to see what he’s got on the stove, he turns. I feel the countertop against my hips before his lips descend on mine and take up my entire focus.
This one is nothing like the kiss in bed. No, this kiss is a reminder of everything that happened last night. A message. A claim.
His lips move over mine, demanding. I surrender immediately, opening wide. His tongue plunders inside, and I taste coffee and faint toothpaste. But that could be me.
I cup his cheek, feeling his stubble against my hand. I move the other down to his nipple.
He moans in approval. His hands move possessively over me until one sneaks in under the T-shirt.
“Fuck, you look sexy in my clothes,” he groans against my lips.
I wrap my arms around his neck. He lifts me onto the counter, spreading my thighs wide to slot in.
The smell of something burning permeates the air, and my eyes snap open. The pan is smoking. I pull back with a loud groan.
He doesn’t let it deter him. He kisses down my jaw, and my eyesstart to droop. No wait!
“Matt, the stove,” I say, but it comes out as an embarrassing moan.
“It’s okay, baby. I can make another later,” he says against my neck. His tongue rubs against my collarbone.
“Mmm hmmm. No… fuck… the stove.” I wrap my legs around his hips.
“Yes, fuck it.” He sucks on the sensitive flesh below my ear.
