12
Bronywyn
For the first time in months, I wake with a smile on my face. After washing in the shower, we’d immediately climbed into bed and fallen straight to sleep. While I’d hoped for a night of pleasant seduction to momentarily relieve me of my recent memories, what I got was a night of dreamless sleep.
Something I haven’t had since well before the rogue soul took up residence inside me. Bright sun shines in through my sheer curtains, casting my room in a calming, golden glow. Tarnley is beside me, lying on his stomach, his bare, muscled back on full display. I reach over and run my fingertips over his caramel skin then lean down and press my lips to his shoulder.
He doesn’t stir, so I quietly sneak out of bed. Grabbing my bright pink robe from a hook in the corner, I pull it on and tiptoe from my room. My house is quiet, and for once, that silence doesn’t drown me.
Because today I’m not alone.
I make my way down to the kitchen and reach behind the coffee maker to turn on the waterspout so it can begin to heat the water. Then, I pull the coffee maker basket open and add a new filter. I reach up and grab the coffee canister from the cabinet, pull open the lid, and inhale deeply, the strong roast making me smile. This is it. The start of a brand-new day.
A brand-new me.
With a little extra spring in my step, I move across the kitchen and retrieve the coffee scoop then fill the basket and start the brew. As it begins to come to life, I head for the fridge to see what I might be able to prep for breakfast.
I’m thinking pancakes, eggs, maybe some bacon—but when my eyes settle on a tinfoil-covered, glass baking dish, I grin. “You didn’t.”
I pull it out and read the words scrawled on top.
Cook at 350 degrees for thirty-five minutes. You can thank me later.
-Winnie
Peeking beneath the tinfoil, I practically dance with excitement and determine that Winnie is absolutely underpaid. I lean down and inhale the cinnamon and sugar topped dish then recover and pre-heat the oven. I swear she knows the way to my heart is through her French toast casserole.
As soon as the temperature is set, I turn and squeal. Tarnley’s answering grin makes the embarrassment over my surprise worth every flush moment. He’s yet to put a shirt on, and the grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips leave very little to the imagination.
I’ve read about it in romance novels, this heart-pounding, blood-hammering, butterflies-in-the-stomach feeling, but I never thought I’d get the chance to experience it in reality. Yet, here I am. Standing in my kitchen, the sight of Tarnley making my mouth water for a hell of a lot more than the French toast casserole about to go into the oven.
Eyebrow arched in amusement, he crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. “You are stunning in the morning.”
“Stunning, huh?”
“Absolutely.” He uncrosses his arms and blurs forward, appearing in front of me before my brain even registers that he’s moved. His large hands go to my hips, and he gently backs me against the counter. I let him guide me, feeling the countertop pressing into my back. “Stunning. Magnificent. Breath-taking. Edible as fuck. All of the above,” he whispers as he leans in closer.
My breath hitches as he reaches up and trails a finger along my collar bone, I clamp my thighs together, hoping to ease even a fraction of the steady throbbing, but the friction only spurs my desire. I tilt my face up as he nudges a knee between mine,
“Do you know how many nights I stayed up, thinking about how you would feel?” Tarnley leans down and presses his lips to my jaw.
I shudder at the feel of his stubble scraping against my skin.
“How you would taste?”
I can barely breathe, and rational thinking is little more than fiction at this point.
“I can feel it now, your lust. I can smell it like a delicate perfume.” His hand trails down, slipping beneath my robe. Gently, he rubs the pad of his thump over my taut nipple, and I moan, arching back. If it weren’t for him standing here, I’d already have melted into a puddle on the floor.
“How many?”
“More than I can count. I spent countless nights lying awake, wondering what you were doing, and imagining all the ways I would show you what you mean to me.”
“Oh?” I manage, my voice barely more than a coarse whisper. He grips my hips and pulls back to spin me then presses me against the countertop again, this time with his dick pressing against my ass.
His hands drop down, sliding down my sides until his fingers dance along the bottom of my short robe. Slowly, torturingly, he guides it up, massaging my thighs as he does so.
“I thought about you, too,” I admit. “All the time.”