He catches me staring almost immediately, and that smug grin appears, slow and wicked, as he pours coffee into two cups. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me like that.”
I let my gaze travel deliberately over the broad line of his back down to the waist of the lounge pants and back up again because he’s asking for it with the tone alone. “You’ll have to be more specific. There’s a lot to work with.”
He glances over one shoulder at me then, and that grin appears, bright and smug and far too boyish for the man he’s become. “So, you admit it.”
“I admit nothing,” I say. “I’m simply trying to decide whether you were carved by God or manufactured in a lab to make me lose whatever self-respect I had left.”
His grin deepens. “That little?”
“Please. I lost most of it in the first five minutes after you opened the door.”
He turns then, coffee cup in one hand, expression indecently pleased with himself. Morning light catches in his eyes and turnsthe ice there pale enough to almost glow. “And here I thought it was when I dragged you inside and kissed the soul out of you.”
I cross farther into the room, unable to stop myself from smiling. “That was merely the confirmation.”
“Of what?”
“That my judgment remains catastrophically unsound.”
A laugh slips out of him, completely unguarded. I love that sound more than I should. More than is probably survivable long-term.
He holds out a cup to me. “Coffee.”
I take it and let our fingers brush because I am weak and because he is clearly no stronger about this than I am. The contact is brief, but his eyes flick down to my mouth all the same. “You did this on purpose.”
His brows lift in practiced innocence. “Coffee?” he says as a question this time.
I point to my throat with two fingers. “This.”
His mouth curves again. “You looked good taking it.”
I should be offended. I’m not. Not even a little.
“You’re impossible in daylight.”
“You didn’t complain in the dark.”
I take my first sip before answering and nearly groan. It’s good. Strong enough to matter, which means he remembered exactly how I take it.
That realization shows on my face because he looks unbearably pleased with himself.
“Stop that,” I say.
“Stop what?”
“Looking like you won something.”
He leans closer, boxing me lightly against the counter without using his hands this time. “My king,” he says, voice gone lower and dirtier in an instant, “I woke up with you in my bed and my marks on your skin. I absolutely won something.”
Heat crawls up my throat under the bruises he’s admiring.
“You are insufferable.”
“You adore me.”
