“It can be new for as long as it needs to be.”
He lifts my hand to his mouth and presses his lips to my knuckles. Holds them there. And I count.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.
“Thank you,” he says against my skin. “For the coffee maker. And the plates. And the organized fridge. And for teaching me how to make a roux even though I burn it every time.”
“You’ll get it.”
“I won’t.”
“You will. Butter and flour and patience, remember?”
“And you. Butter and flour and patience andyou.”
Cavall barks once, like he can understand us, and we both look down to find him sitting between our chairs with Virgil in his mouth.
“And Cavall,” Lance amends.
I laugh. He smiles. And the morning stretches out around us, unhurried, and soft, and ordinary in the way only extraordinary things can be.
Later, after the dishes are done and the cabin is clean and Cavallis asleep on the porch in a patch of sun, Lance pulls me into the bedroom by my hand.
“It’s ten in the morning,” I say.
“I’m aware of the time.”
“We have things to do.”
“Name one.”
“I have prep for tonight’s service. And you have a meeting with Paxton about the training program at two.”
“That’s four hours from now.”
He kisses me, and the protest dissolves on my tongue. His hands frame my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones, and he takes care of me the way he does when he’s not rushing. It’s slow, and thorough, like he’s memorizing the shape of my mouth.
“I want to take my time with you.” His voice drops, low and rough. “No rush. No one waiting. No cage match at midnight or best friend knocking on the door. Just you and me and however long it takes.”
The heat that rolls through me starts at my scalp and works its way down to my toes.
“However long it takes,” I repeat.
He pulls the sweatshirt over my head, and then he grins and pushes me gently back onto the mattress. He starts at my ankles. Kisses the inside of one, then the other, his mouth warm and slow. He works his way up—the curve of my calf, the bend of my knee, the inside of my thigh where the skin is thin and every press of his lips sends electricity up my spine.
“I want to take care of you the way you take care of me. That’s the deal, Half-Pint. You teach me to cook. I give you the mornings you deserve.”
My eyes sting. He sees it and presses his mouth to my hipbone, then the soft skin below my navel, and then lower, and every thought in my head dissolves into white noise.
He takes his time. His mouth on me, his hands holding my hips, his fingers gripping me with exactly the right pressure, and every time I get close, he slows down, pulling me back from the edge until I’m shaking and gripping the sheets and saying his name like it’s the only word I know.
“Patience,” he says against my skin, and I canfeelhim smiling. “Isn’t that what you tell me? Butter and flour and patience?”
“I’m going tokillyou.”
“You can try.”
When he finally lets me fall, it’s slow, the kind of orgasm that starts deep in my core and radiates outward until my whole body is trembling and I can’t see straight and his name tears out of me loud enough to wake Cavall on the porch.
