His footsteps retreat down the hall, and I blow out all the air in my lungs. How am I supposed to face him in the light of day? How do we go from dish-breaking, wall-shaking sex to casual morning coffee now that everything’s changed?
I don’t know how to face him now that he’s seen my orgasm face. Well… again. But this time he was sober, so, yeah.
You know what? I've faced down corporate sharks and sexist brewery owners. I can handle post-sex awkwardness with my accidental husband.
Even if said husband has a body that should be illegal and knows exactly how to use it.
Even if I maybe sort of definitely want him to use it again. Immediately.
In case you’re wondering, “body” definitely means dick.
Also, abs.
My phone buzzes on the counter reminding me that the real world still exists outside this house. Honestly, I kind of hate it a little.
By the time I've brushed my teeth and pulled on leggings and the least wrinkled of Kasen's shirts from my growing collection, I've almost convinced myself I can handle this like an adult. We're adults. We had sex. Earth-shattering, reality-altering, ruin-you-for-other-men sex. But still just sex.
No big deal. It’ll be fine.
When I walk into the kitchen, Kasen is standing at the counter pouring coffee, his back to me. He's shirtless, because why wouldn’t he be? He’s only got on sweatpants that hang low on his hips and show off his ass that should have its own Instagram account. I’m actually afraid of what I’ll do if I get a view of what they do for his dick.
The tattoos that cover his arms continue across his shoulders and down his spine, a canvas of colors and shapes I didn't have time to fully appreciate last night. And yep, those are scratches from me woven in with the designs, too.
It looks like I tried to claw my way inside his skin.
I press my legs together as I remember putting every single one of them on his skin. I hope he doesn’t notice how I want to jump his bones all over again right now.
Or bone. Singular.
Pregnancy hormones are a bitch, but they've got nothing on whatever this man does to my nervous system.
"Morning," I say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere in the ballpark ofhoarse because your dick was down my throat an hour ago.
He turns, and the smile that crosses his face when he sees me knocks the air straight out of my lungs. It's warm and intimate and so genuine it hurts. It’s also a little dirty at the edges. Like he’s remembering how I look naked.
"Morning, Pink." He holds out a mug filled to the brim with the perfect mix of coffee and cream. "Figured you might need this after last night."
I take the coffee, careful not to let our fingers touch. One spark and we'd end up right back in his bed again, and I have a meeting in ninety minutes. "Thanks. Your coffee maker is ridiculous. It has more buttons than a spaceship."
"Worth it though." His eyes drop to the mark on my neck and then to the chain I’m still wearing around my neck, and the satisfied smirk that tugs at his mouth should piss me off. It doesn’t. "Nice hickey.”
I roll my eyes, but heat floods my face. "Very mature. This is going to be impossible to cover up."
"Not trying to be mature." He takes a sip of his coffee, watching me over the rim of his mug. "I like seeing my mark on you."
And there it is. The possessive caveman bullshit that should have me putting him in his place. Instead, my traitorous body responds like he just offered me chocolate-covered orgasms.
My eyes drift to the kitchen table, now cleared of broken dishes, but forever changed in my mind. I'll never be able to eat breakfast there again without remembering how he looked hovering over me, his eyes black as night, his hands gripping my thighs hard enough to bruise as he owned every inch of me.
"We should probably talk about that," I force out, meeting his gaze even though it feels like staring into the sun.
"Which part?" His tone is light, but there's weight beneath it. "The part where you begged me to fuck you? Or the part where you finally admitted you're my wife?"
"I didn't beg." The protest is automatic, even though we both know it's bullshit.
"You definitely begged." He sets his mug down and leans against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement makes his muscles flex in ways that are completely hazardous to my concentration. And vagina. "But we can argue semantics later. We need to figure out what this means."
"What this means?" I take a sip of coffee to buy time. This means I'm fucked. This means all the walls I built to keep him out are rubble at his feet. This means I actually want the thing I've been fighting against since Vegas.
