"Good." I kiss her hair, then tap her hip. "Come on. I need caffeine if I'm going to be charming in public."
She groans but lets me go, rolling onto her back. The sheet slides down, exposing one long bare thigh and the hem of my T-shirt that's slanting high on her hips. No idea if she's doing it on purpose. Doesn't matter. My dick doesn't care about intent.
Focus.
I drag on sweats, rake a hand through my hair, then head for the kitchen before I decide the stolen day starts and ends in this bed.
By the time the coffee machine's grumbling to life, the air in the kitchen shifts the way it always does when she walks into a room. I hear bare feet on hardwood. The whisper of cotton. She appears in the doorway. My T-shirt stops at mid-thigh, her hair is twisted in a messy knot, and her face still looks sleep-soft. I have to tighten my grip on the counter so I don't drag her against it when my gaze catches on her bare legs.
"Hi," she says, a little shy, as though we didn't spend last night wrapped around each other while she poured her nightmares into my hands.
"Morning, Mrs. Turner," I say before I can stop myself.
Color flares high on her cheekbones. She fidgets with the hem, fingers rubbing cotton as though she doesn't know what to do without a task. "Dangerous words this early," she mutters.
I pour two mugs and jerk my chin toward the table. "Sit."
She heads for a chair on the opposite side. I catch her wrist, tugging gently.
"Not there. Here." I drop into the nearest chair and pat my thigh. "Lap's open."
Her eyes flick from my face to my lap and back. "You're handsy this morning."
"Been handsy since Chicago. I'm just better at hiding it now."
Sloane hesitates, searching my face for any sign this is a joke at her expense. There isn't one. After a heartbeat, she swings a leg over and settles, facing the table. Her weight sinks onto my thighs, back resting against my chest. I bite down on a curse when her ass hits exactly where every part of me is paying attention.
I wrap one arm around her waist, splay my hand over her stomach, and slide my thumb under the edge of the shirt. With the other hand I reach around and set both mugs on the table. She blows on her coffee, pretending she isn't hyper-aware of every place we're touching.
"This isn't conducive to drinking," she says, breathier than the words deserve.
"You'll manage," I murmur into the side of her neck. "Multitasking's one of your strengths."
"You're teasing."
"Little bit." I drag my nose along the soft spot under her ear. "Gotta practice my self-control somehow."
She makes a tiny sound that goes straight to my cock. Her body relaxes gradually, as though she's realizing I'm not going to push further if she doesn't want me to. We sit there for a while. She drinks; I drink. My hand drifts from stomach to hip, downher thigh, back up, staying on the right side of that thin line between teasing and pushing.
"You're doing that on purpose," she says finally.
"Yep."
Small, shaky laugh. "And here I thought I was safe until after breakfast."
"You're never safe from me, sweetheart. But I'll always stop when you ask."
She swallows. "I know." That lands heavy. I tighten my arm a fraction. "Okay," she says after another quiet minute, shifting carefully on my lap. "What's the plan, Vice?"
"We ride. Take the bike out to that diner on Route Seven. The one Maggie says has the best pancakes in the county."
Her nose wrinkles. "The one with the clown mural."
"Unfortunately. We'll sit on the other side. I'll body-block if it looks at you."
She twists to look back at me. "You are more afraid of that clown than I am."
"Correct. And yet I will face it for you. That's love."
