Page 136 of The Next Lie

“You’re very…dressed.”

“You’re also wearing very little. Not that I’m complaining.”

“It’s a kitchen. In the morning. I’m getting coffee, not applying for citizenship.” I try and fail to clear the huskiness from my voice.

His lips touch the side of my throat. “I support your efforts, Yank. Every one of them.”

I roll my eyes and fail to step away.

That’s how I end up sitting on the counter five minutes later with Shiloh between my thighs and my coffee forgotten beside the sink.

His hands are warm on my legs. His mouth is patient in a way the rest of him never is. Shiloh kisses like he is talking me into something, except the terrible truth is that I usually want whatever he’s selling. He starts light, teasing, smiling against my lips when I make irritated sounds, then deepens it just enough to make my fingers curl in the front of his shirt.

“You are very annoying,” I say against his mouth.

“Yes, darling. You’ve mentioned.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

He kisses me again, and I lose the thread of my half-hearted argument.

My legs tighten around his hips. His hand slides higher on my thigh, thumb moving under the hem of the shirt, not quite indecent but not innocent either. My pulse trips. The kitchen is bright and quiet, all marble counters and morning sun, and somehow that makes this feel worse than if he had pulled me into a dark corner.

Worse, and better.

My life has become deeply confusing. I want my revenge, but I also want quiet, sexy mornings wrapped up in sunshine and Shiloh. I want afternoons with Ever and nights with Nash.

I might even want something with Deacon; I haven’t decided that yet.

The back hallway floor creaks.

Shiloh hears it when I do, but instead of moving, he smiles into the kiss.

“Don’t you dare,” I whisper.

“Don’t what?” His smirk somehow manages innocence and wickedness all at once.

“Use me to traumatize someone before breakfast.”

Over his shoulder, Cal stops dead in the doorway.

For one terrible second, nobody moves.

I am on the counter in a T-shirt and panties, my legs splayed around Shiloh—no other word for it—hair a mess, mouth probably swollen. Shiloh is standing between my knees like he pays rent there. Cal’s hand is still on the doorframe, his eyes taking in the scene before his brain decides to save him by looking somewhere else.

He turns his head toward the cabinet to his left so fast I am surprised nothing cracks.

“Morning,” he mutters.

Shiloh steps back. A little. Not enough to be helpful.

“Good morning, Cal,” he says, pleasant as sin. “Sleep well?”

I slide off the counter and tug the hem of my shirt down. It covers everything important, which does not improve the situation nearly as much as one might hope.

“Hi,” I mumble.