“I’m observing,” I correct, not bothering to deny it. “There’s a difference.”
“And what exactly are you observing?”
“The way that shirt barely covers your ass. The way you’re not wearing anything underneath it. The way you keep stretching to reach things in the top cabinet when you could just ask me.”
She turns around, leaning against the counter with a smirk that makes my blood run hot. “Maybe I know you like the view when I stretch.”
“Jesus, Goldie.” I abandon the tablet completely, crossing the kitchen to cage her against the counter. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“The kids?—”
“Are still asleep. We’ve got at least twenty minutes before Blythe’s internal alarm clock goes off.”
She laughs, but her hands are already sliding under my shirt, nails scraping lightly against my abs. “Twenty minutes? That’s ambitious, even for you.”
“I can work with twenty minutes,” I growl against her neck, lifting her onto the counter. The shirt rides up, and the sight of her bare thighs wrapped around my waist makes me groan. “I’ve been thinking about this since I woke up.”
“This being what, exactly?” Her voice has gone breathy, the way it does when I find that spot on her neck that makes her arch against me.
“Taking you right here in the kitchen. Making you come so hard you forget your own name. Then carrying you back to bed and doing it again properly.”
Her answering whimper goes straight to my cock. I’m already hard, already pressing against her, when we hear the distinct sound of small feet on the stairs.
“Shit,” I mutter, stepping back reluctantly while she hops down from the counter, smoothing the shirt over her hips.
“Later,” she promises, and the heat in her eyes makes the interruption almost bearable.
“GOOD MORNING!” Blythe announces her presence at maximum volume, appearing in the kitchen doorway wearing what appears to be three different pajama sets layered on top ofeach other. “I couldn’t decide which ones were most appropriate for Thursday, so I chose all of them!”
“Very thorough decision-making process,” I tell her seriously, though I’m still fighting the urge to pull Golda back into my arms.
Tyson follows more quietly, already dressed for school and carrying a hockey magazine. “Morning. Did you watch the Nashville game last night? Their power play looked completely different.”
“I caught the highlights,” I say, grateful for the distraction of hockey talk while my body calms down. “They’ve been working with a new assistant coach.”
As the morning routine unfolds—breakfast, backpack checks, the usual chaos of getting two kids ready for school—I find myself watching Golda with the same intensity I bring to game film. The way she moves around the kitchen, efficient and graceful. The way she handles Blythe’s dramatic interpretation of the school lunch menu (“TURKEY SANDWICHES ARE AN AFFRONT TO CULINARY CREATIVITY!”). The way she patiently explains to Tyson why he can’t wear his playoff jersey to school three days in a row.
This is what I never knew I wanted. Not just her—though god knows I want her constantly, with an intensity that sometimes catches me off guard—but this. The domestic chaos, the shared responsibilities, the way my life feels fuller and more purposeful with her and the kids in it.
Suddenly, she stops in front of me, forcing me to meet her gaze. “Tyson asked you a question.”
“Sorry, buddy. What was it?”
“I asked if you think Coach Barrett might let me sit in on a practice sometime. During summer maybe.”
“I’ll ask him,” I promise. “He’s pretty strict about who’s allowed on the ice during practice, but maybe we can arrange something.”
“Really?” His face lights up with the kind of excitement most kids reserve for Christmas morning.
“Really. Can’t promise anything, but I’ll see what I can do.”
After the kids leave for school—Tyson with his backpack, Blythe with her backpack plus what appears to be a secondary bag for “emergency art supplies”—the house settles into the quiet that only comes after the morning chaos ends.
“So,” Golda says, settling onto the couch next to me with her coffee. “About that twenty minutes we didn’t have earlier...”
“We’ve got about three hours before I have to leave for practice,” I point out, already reaching for her.
“Three hours?” She raises an eyebrow. “What exactly do you have planned?”
