I don’t want to borrow more unnecessary trouble, so I glance at the table set for two.
Coffee, croissants, fruit and oh my God…heavenly-smelling—
“Bacon!” I fly to the table and he follows with a laugh.
But when I go to take a seat, he grabs me, sits down and drops me onto his lap, keeping me captive with an iron arm around my middle.
His erection is a solid bar digging a furrow into my ass and lower back. Color surges into my face and when I glance at him, he sends me a heated look before he reaches for the plate of bacon. “Does my little carnivore require some meat?”
He waggles his eyebrow suggestively, and laughter bubbles out of me like a sappy romcom character. My heart takes flight and I know I’m in deep trouble.
I’m falling deep.
Way past lust.
Past the dizzy trip of being well and truly fucked for the first time.
My heart continues to kick frantically against my ribs as Matt feeds me bacon and eggs, then yummy fruit, licking up the juices that catch at the corner of my mouth.
And all the while, his stalk of a dick throbs its presence under my ass where I feel it each time I move.
Or each time he tightens his arm around my waist and pushes me down to grind over it.
“Did you make all of this while I was sleeping?” I ask as I sip my coffee, trying and failing to ignore the painful peaks of my nipples and the wet patch I’m making on his boxers.
“The eggs and bacon, yes. The rest with a little help from a deli down the street.”
I turn toward him. “You went out?”
A muscle twitches in his jaw before it’s engulfed in a sexy smile. “They delivered.”
“Oh, cool. The eggs are amazing.”
His smile widens. “Oh yeah? I’ll make sure to pass on the compliments to my teacher.”
He seems to tense after he says that but my curiosity urges me to ask, “Who taught you?”
“My mother.”
It takes several seconds before I accept he’s not going to volunteer any more info. “My mom taught me to open a can of tomato soup,” I say, but the laughter that follows isn’t as carefree as before.
My fingers curl around my coffee cup, feeling as if I’ve stepped off a smooth road onto a rocky path without conscious thought.
The arm around my waist moves, and he’s caressing my hip, his hand sneaking beneath the shirt to trail up my back. “And your dad?”
“He wasn’t in the picture. Not since I was little.”
“So it was just you and your mom?” he asks, lifting his coffee to take a gulp.
My heart starts to hammer for a different reason. Blanket caution has kept me safe so far.
But…
I’ve already shared so much with this man with broad shoulders and a sinfully gorgeous face; this man who quietly takes care of douchebags and dares the world to defy him.
The clock is counting down to me never seeing him again.
I gave him a fake name. Surely I can share parts of my life without revealing incriminating stuff?