“All sounds good to me. You pick the events. We can always come back here later and spend the rest of the day in bed.”
“Promises, promises,” he murmured, his lips finding mine in a slow kiss that tasted like coffee and mornings in bed.
“One I promise to deliver on.”
He snorted, nipped my lower lip, then let me go. “I’m going to jump in the shower. Feel free to join me if you’d like help with that before our date.” His gaze flicked to my crotch and the undeniable erection.
Peanut Butter chose that moment to launch onto the counter; Nox chasing him across the surface. Only having my cup in hand kept it from being shoved off the counter to shatter spectacularly on both of us. But the duo knocked over the creamer and sent the mixing spoon flying. Angel sighed, long-suffering, as he picked up the creamer and bent to retrieve the spoon.
I groaned. Maybe I should have asked for the day in bed.
27
Steam curledaround us as the shower water turned lukewarm. Angel slowly and deliberately traced soap over my shoulders, washing away more than just sleep. His thumbs pressed into the knots along my spine, coaxing out stiffness and tension. I melted like butter in his hands, wishing I’d accepted his offer to stay in bed all day.
“Stop thinking,” he murmured against my damp hair.
“I’m not.”
He nipped my earlobe. “Mhmm.”
The accusation dissolved into the mist as he turned me to face him, water sluicing down the planes of his chest. I traced the lines of his tattoos with my fingertips as droplets clung to his lashes.
“I wasn’t. Not really. Just reconsidering your first offer.”
He grinned and leaned in to capture my lips with his. I opened for him with a sigh, the bitter coffee taste of him flooding my senses. He hummed approval, the vibration traveling straight through me as he angled his head to take the kiss deeper still. We lingered in the moment, my hands finding their way to his hips as he deepened the kiss with aching slowness.
Time narrowed the world around us to the slide of lips, the catch of teeth, the way his breath hitched when I nipped at his lower lip. When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, bodies aching as the water began to cool.
My stomach took that moment to let out a ferocious growl.
Angel laughed. “I guess we need to feed the beast.” He reached behind me and turned off the water, shoving back the curtain to grab a towel.
“I can microwave a breakfast sandwich or something,” I offered as he ran the towel over me. “If there’s something else you’d rather do today.”
“I thought you trusted me.”
“Ah, yeah?”
“We’ll start with breakfast, then. I know a place.” He wrapped the towel around my hips and gave me a little shove toward the door. “Go get dressed.”
I stared at him for another long minute, struck stupid by watching him dry himself off. But my stomach growled again, knocking me out of the trance. I grumbled in annoyance at my traitorous gut and headed to the bedroom to find something to wear.
He strolled naked through the apartment, retrieving his bag and pulling out clothes, transforming himself effortlessly from mouthwatering hot to devastating with low-slung jeans and a fitted black tank that outlined his muscles, which he hid beneath a sweatshirt with the U of M logo on it.
“Did you go to the U of M?” I asked as I pulled on jeans.
“Yep. Criminal Justice degree. It was the only thing the military made good on, paying for my degree. You?”
“Metro State,” I said. “The U was out of my budget. But I got to double minor in violence prevention and sociology. I also took a few cybersecurity and forensics classes.”
As I rummaged through my closet, the familiar paralysis set in. Button-ups and my usual black tees practically shoutedfuneral director on casual Friday. What did anyone wear on a date with the hottest man they knew?
“You’re overthinking,” Angel said, appearing at my shoulder still radiating shower heat. He ran his fingers over the hanging fabrics with the same deliberate care he’d used to trace my spine earlier. “It’s just breakfast.”
He plucked the cherry blossom shirt from its hanger—the one I’d bought on a whim last spring and never worn—the subtle embroidery, black on black, too pretty for my usual attire and the chances of blood spatter on the job. But we weren’t working today. That meant no blood, right?
Angel rubbed the silky fabric between thumb and forefinger. “Breathable and soft,” he murmured, approving. “Patterned so you don’t look like FBI.”
