“Come here, babe.”
The scentof coffee and bacon wafts through the hallway as I head to the kitchen. I take a deep inhale, the familiar smell filling my lungs.
Memories from childhood push forward. I usually keep them buried just deep enough to stay out of reach. Unattainable.
I put them there on purpose.
But today…
I let them come.
Sunday mornings. Cartoons. Dad in the kitchen. Mamá in her chair, sewing.
The smell of grease filling the room while Dad made the standard American breakfast: bacon, eggs, toast, and fruit.
Afterward my parents would sit and drink their coffee together. They’d talk. Laugh. Ask me questions about my week. I loved that time. It’s when I felt closest to them.
And it’s what hurt the most when it was ripped away.
It’s why I don’t drink coffee. Why I don’t eat meat. I told everyone it was about ethics. It wasn’t. Sure, my reasons have changed over time… but back then?
It reminded me too much of my dad.
Normally it hurts to think about him like this. Makes me feel like I’m breathing through a straw.
It doesn’t right now.
Maybe it’s because I’m still high off Matt’s proposal last night. Or because I fell asleep wrapped in his arms. But I think it’s because I finally have something stronger to hold onto. New memories. My own family.
I step into the kitchen, and a smile instantly pulls at my lips. Matt stands at the stove, back to me, shirtless, spatula in hand. He’s got two different pans of eggs cooking side by side, one in the bacon grease for him, the other in coconut oil for me.
It’s a pain in the ass, I know that. And I’d never complain if he cooked them together in the grease. I’d swallow my feelings about it.
But he doesn’t. He does it this way. For me.
Warmth spreads through my chest, soft and gooey, making me want to melt right back into his arms.
“Morning,” I say, moving toward him.
He glances over his shoulder. “Morning, babe. How’d you sleep?”
I step behind him, my hands sliding up his back over the hard muscle and ink, and press a kiss to his shoulder blade. “Good. What about you?”
He scoops the spatula under the eggs and slides them ontoseparate plates. He twists the burners off, turns toward me, and meets me with a kiss.
“I slept good.” His mouth kicks up at one corner. “I had my sexy wifeandmy fiancée in bed last night.”
A smile threatens. “Oh, yeah? One of me isn’t enough for you?”
“Nope. I’d take three of you if I could.”
His lips find mine again and I savor the warmth of them.
I lift a brow. “Three? Why three?”
“Do you really have to ask?” he murmurs against my jaw.
He chuckles and kisses me again. His hand slides over my waist, pulling me closer. “Three pairs of hands to tie. Three mouths.” His lips brush my ear as his fingers drift higher. He kneads my breast, thumb pinching my nipple through my shirt. “Six perfect tits to suck on.”
