There’s noise from the other room. He’s already up and about, moving around, already handling goodness knows what.
I know he’s taken time away from work while I’m here, but it doesn’t mean he can completely turn it off.
Guilt gnaws at me. Why do I think I’m so important I can just come here and laze around while he drops everything to entertain me?
My clit throbs, reminding me of where we left things last night. I didn’t expect him to be so good with his fingers.
He can entertain me likethatall he wants, his job be damned.
Yet my chest is a little tight. What does last night mean for us? Why did he stop?
Maybe he thinks I’m special and he doesn’t want to rush things. Maybe he’s asexual. Maybe, maybe?—
Stop it, Ivy. You’re spiraling again.
Enjoy the moment. You got finger banged. He gave you what you needed, made you come. Just let it be.
I make peace with the universe, and get out of bed.
Then I smell it.
Coffee. Butter. Something warm and rich, like a kitchen already in motion.
I blink at the ceiling. Dark linens. The faint glow of Ravelle light leaking through the blinds.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand. The floor is cool under my feet.
I walk down the hallway carefully, like I’m moving through someone else’s life. Like I’m trespassing.
When I reach the kitchen, I see him.
Soren is barefoot, wearing a different pair of gray sweatpants—bless him—and a fitted black T-shirt that makes his arms lookespecially ripped. Tattoos run down his forearms like warnings disguised as art.
He’s standing at the stove, flipping something in a pan with calm precision, like this is what he does when he wants to make someone feel safe.
Like this is what he does when he wants to win.
I can’t remember a time when a guy made me breakfast two days in a row. It’s usually been a one-and-done type situation, if at all.
He glances up when he hears me. His mouth curves immediately. “Morning, stray,” he says.
That word again. The way he says it is warm. Possessive. Like it’s meant for me.
I clear my throat. “Morning.”
He turns the heat down, then pours coffee into a mug, adding cream and sugar just like yesterday.
He approaches me, setting down the mug. Then his hand closes around my throat and he pulls me to him. His lips brush mine, his tongue pressing through.
I moan as he tilts my head back, taking from me what he needs. Electricity beelines for my clit.
Just as quickly, he pulls away, leaving me wanting more, and moves back to the other side of the kitchen.
The mug is hot against my palms.
Soren watches me take the first sip like it matters.
The coffee is strong, smooth, perfect. I can’t help but close my eyes, savoring the roasted perfection.