“I like you. I like your face.” He kisses my cheek.
“Yours isn’t bad, either.” If I had a face like his, I’d be like Narcissus and never move away from the mirror.
“I like your mouth.” He presses a kiss there, too. “And your heart.” He presses a kiss between my breasts, and I wonder if he can feel it fluttering.
“Notquitemy heart,” I purr as his hands, my back arching as he frames my breasts, his tongue a wet slide across each in turn. I close my eyes as everything turns liquid inside.
“And your pussy…” he whispers hotly, his lips against my ear.
“You’re kissing the wrong place,” I whisper, biting back my smile. I sense him pull back, and I open my eyes. The looks he sends me? It’s mouthwateringly sexy, but I still preempt his move by crooking my finger under his chin.
“Your pussy is like a portal to heaven.”
“My pussy is a porthole?” I repeat like I didn’t hear him properly. For some reason, all I can hear is John Mayer singing that line in my head. They might be Raif’s words, but the tune is a crooning take on “Your Body is a Wonderland.”
Your pussy is a port-hoooole…
“Isn’t a porthole…big?” I ask, suddenly filled with dismay.
“Goddamn.” His head drops. “Portal,” he says heavily, lifting it again. “Your pussy is a portal, not a fucking porthole.”
“Oh. Good. I’m glad you clarified that.”
“I think now might be a good time to remind you I brought breakfast.”
“Yes, good call.” I shuffle up the bed until I’m half propped on the fluffy pillows.
“Did you put all this together yourself?” I know Sam isn’t in the kitchen because he’d mentioned last night that he made a new batch of pecan granola, even going as far as to say what shelf he’d left it on in the pantry. He obviously thinks I can’t fend for myself.
Yet on the nightstand is an old-fashioned wooden butler’s tray containing a breakfast assortment that looks like a sugar addict’s wet dream: a stack of Belgian waffles dusted with powdery sugar, berries, cream, or maybe ice cream, and if I’m not mistaken, a jar of homemadedulce de leche. There’s also a carafe of bright orange juice, a silver cafetiere, and a bud vase holding a sprig of lavender.
My heart returns to my chest cavity where it swells, like the Grinch’s, three sizes.
“If breakfast impresses you, princess, your bar is set way low.”
“It impresses me if you made it. Is Maria at work?”
“You think I’m not capable?”
“You’re capable of many things. Some of them I think might be illegal in some parts of the world.” I roll my lips in as though they’re parched, but I think I might still be a little fuck drunk.That’s a thing, right?“But I also remember how you couldn’t find an ice cream bowl. In your own kitchen.”
“I can use a waffle iron.”
“I bet you didn’t even know what one looked like up until this morning.”
“Wrong. As for where things are kept, Sam left everything out for me.”
“With instructions?”
“Maybe.”
Raif might not have exactly planned on breakfast in bed, but it’s still lovely to discover he’d thought of me.Of feeding me.But that’s not what I say. Because I’m me. And I just can’t help that fact.
“How can you not know where the plates are kept?” The pillow rustles as I move my head from side to side, as though thoroughly amused.
“Says the woman who was drinking champagne from a sundae dish last night.”
“Fine.” I roll my eyes. “At least I can scramble an egg.”
