Fuck my life.
The chair makes an ungodly scraping sound against the tile as I stand. “I’m going to go now.”
He’s across the kitchen in three strides, capturing me around my waist and holding me fast. “Like hell you are.” He presses a soft kiss to my hair, nuzzling into my neck. “You’regoing to sit down, eat some breakfast, drink some coffee, and pop a couple of aspirin.”
The second his arms band around me, my entire body melts, dredging up a flood of emotions of how good he felt last night.
How good he mademefeel.
“If you continue kissing me like that, you’re going to end up wearing more scratch marks.”
He drops his head onto my shoulder, laughter reverberating through his body as mortification floods mine.
Good job, old girl. You go from not being able to form a coherent sentence to threatening bodily harm.
What a pivot.
I sigh and release a soft groan. “I think coffee is a solid plan. Then I might behave like a human being again.”
A second after dropping back onto my seat, a mug of coffee appears before me, its potent aroma waking up my insides. “Perfect. Do you have any?—”
Can’t get the request out before Eddie sets down some milk and sugar. “I know how you take your coffee,” he replies, running a gentle hand over my hair.
At this point, the man knowseverythingabout me. Including how easy it is to make me come.
Best keep that fact to myself.
“Aspirin?” He shakes the bottle in my direction.
“No, I’m fine, actually.” At least on the head front. Feeling like a schoolgirl naked in front of her quarterback crush is still very much in play.
“Huh. Guess those radioactive drinks weren’t as bad as you thought.”
“Think it was several orgasms that did the trick.” I clap my hand over my mouth, my entire body heating as the flush spreads to every inchof my body.
For Christ’s sake.
“Happy to be of service.” He laughs, dusting his fingers against his chest. That gorgeous, muscular chest, complete with the happiest of happy trails.
I really need to look anywhere but at him. Otherwise, I might start drooling, begging, or something equally vexing.
He sets down a plate loaded with food. “Here you go. Blueberry pecan pancakes and my special maple syrup, bacon, and”—he pulls a can from his waistband with a smirk—“whipped cream. For later, if you’re good.”
I’m not sure which stuns me most: the delicious spread in front of me, the gorgeous man I spent the night with, or the sexually loaded jokes about food play. We’ll go with a fun mix of all three.
“Eddie, I never eat this much for breakfast.”
He shrugs, leaning against the back of the opposite chair. “Consider it your birthday breakfast.”
Talk about knocking the shine off a moment.
Eddie’s words are innocent. He means well. He’s being sweet, which is pretty much a constant from the man.
But it’s also a reminder that I’m forty. Ten years older than he is. A different decade, for God’s sake.
Once again, I realize how cruddy I look sans makeup, clean clothes, or a shower, especially next to his effortless good looks.
Damn the young.
