It may not have been graceful, but I got the job done. And the job of exposing him so he could plunge into me was a job well done.
Very well done.
The rest of it, including the consequences of said job, would wait until the sun set on this day.
For the time being, nothing existed but this.
And nothing would.
Until sunrise.
Getting almost blown up by a car bomb was rather like drinking twelve of Laura Maye’s cocktails and doing tequila shots after—or rather the result of that the next day. Everything hurt. Even my hair hurt.
The only ache that was bearable, pleasant in fact, was the one between my legs. But that came with the side effect of the ache in my heart.
My bed was empty, apart from tangled sheets and the scent of him that reminded me of the night before.
And the bad decisions that followed the car bomb. I didn’t quite think they were the worst decisions considering my sleep was nightmare-free, Keltan’s weight at my back chasing away the worst of the demons.
I let myself have a couple of moments to wake up properly and try to run over the events of the previous night. I checked my phone for all of the messages from Rosie and the rest of the crew, worrying about me. I sent off a quick mass text ensuring them I was breathing.
Or was I?
Was I really drowning?
I sucked in a strangled mouthful of oxygen to prove myself wrong and got out of bed. Keltan’s shirt lay discarded on the floor and I looked at it wistfully, tangled with a nightgown of mine which had lasted exactly nine seconds.
I picked up the tee, sniffing it and Keltan’s pleasing scent.
Then I thought better of it, dropped the tee and clothed my naked body in the slinky nightgown.
My feet took me in the direction of the kitchen, and the coffee, and the Keltan, by the sounds of it.
His back was to me, facing the stove. And what a back it was. Corded with muscle, caramel latte tinged, marred with scars that I did not appreciate.
Because he was a badass male, and badass males had weird and creepy powers. He turned, sensing my presence.
He scowled at me, spatula in hand. “You’re meant to be in bed.”
I raised my brow. “No, I’m meant to be where the coffee is,” I countered, padding over to the pot and pouring the delicious java into the cup that sat beside it.
Keltan moved the sizzling pan from the heat so he could move closer to me, his eyes on my hand. Or more aptly, the cast covering it.
“You in pain, baby?” he asked, his voice soft. As was his touch when he gently ran his hand along the black fabric encasing the broken bone.
I took a sip of the coffee in order to stave off the sleep. And the dream. But even after the sip, he was still there.
“Only a little,” I admitted.
He rose his brow.
“Or a lot,” I confessed.
He leaned in to kiss my head. “Yeah, and you’re not supposed to take those meds on an empty stomach. I’m making you breakfast.”
He gave me a look before stepping back to the pan and putting bacon and eggs onto a plate.
I lifted my cup. “I’m having breakfast.”
He frowned. “Coffee is not a food group.”
I frowned back. “Maybe not in your world.”
He directed me to the kitchen table I never used, putting the plate down and a knife and fork beside it, then taking my coffee cup and placing it down. “Just eat the fucking eggs, Snow,” he said.
I sat, glaring at him. “Just so you know, I killed the last man who took coffee from my hands.”
He grinned in the face of my wrath, kissing the top of my head. “Willing to take my chances with death if it means my girl is in a little less pain.”
The joking of before was gone, and those nasty consequences found their way in.
Because I wasn’t ready for that on two sips of coffee, I picked up the knife and fork. “I want the record to show I’m doing this for pain meds, not for you,” I told him.
The grin remained, but the eyes had a glint that told me he was thinking of consequences too. “Noted.”
It was after eggs and drugs that consequences came.
Wasn’t that always the way?
I had stood up to take my plate to the sink, and Keltan had followed, snatching the plate from my hands with a glare.
I rolled my eyes.
“I’m actually fine. A broken arm isn’t going to hamper me from living my life,” I told him. “Though it will stop me from wearing some great tops.”
Instead of grinning like he had been for the meal, during which we kept to safe subjects that didn’t have any chance of bringing reality in, he glowered.