Holy shit.
A tiny bralette covering her tits that doesnothingto hide the fact that it’s freezing in here. Or her nipples.
They’re pressed against the sheer pink fabric, rosy and hard.
There’s a spatula in her hand.
She’s making eggs.
I smile.
She hasn’t noticed me yet.
For the first three seconds, I don’t move. I bask in it, rooted to the spot, gawking at her; wondering if maybe Ididdie on the plane and this is some kind of weird post-game hallucination?
She is a fever dream I cannot take my eyes off of.
I take my time, leaning idly against the doorway, soaking it in—the way her hair’s twisted up in a messy knot, the faint sizzle of the pan, the little hum in her throat as she stirs. The first time I saw her like this, I’d wanted to walk up behind her, brush her hair aside, and press my mouth to the curve of her neck while my hands slid over those perfect breasts.
This time, I don’t just think about it.
I move in slow, quiet steps, my shadow spilling over the tile floor as I close the distance between us. My chest meets her back, my hands finding their way up her sides and over the swell of her breasts, palms warm against her chilled skin.
She jolts, inhaling sharply at the surprise, but before she can say a word, I dip my head and kiss the soft spot just beneath her ear. She exhales—a shaky, startled sound—and leans into me like her body already knows where it belongs.
The sizzle of the eggs fades.
“Miss me?”
“Mmhmm,” she hums.
My thumbs stroke over the soft curve of her breasts, the thin fabric doing nothing to dull the sensation.
“That’s not very convincing,” I murmur against her skin, my lips trailing lower, grazing the line of her shoulder.
She tilts her head, giving me more access, and I take it—nipping lightly, kissing down the side of her neck until I feel her shiver. The spatula in her hand clatters onto the counter, forgotten.
“I can think of better things to do with you than breakfast,” I murmur, letting my hand slip beneath the waistband of her skimpy thong.
Her breath catches, and I feel the subtle shift of her thighs parting just enough to tell me exactly what she wants.
The eggs are definitely burning, but neither of us gives a shit.
My fingers skim lower, teasing, until her breath stutters and she reaches back to grab my thigh like she needs the anchor.
“Turn around,” I murmur, my lips brushing her ear.
Poppy pivots slowly in my arms, back hitting the counter. Her eyes are darker now, pupils wide, cheeks flushed from more than the stove’s heat.
“I’m hungry,” I rasp, my thumb brushing over her. “Starved.”
I kiss her as if I’ve been holding it in for days because I have. Her fingers thread into my hair, tugging, and I groan into her mouth as one hand slides under her bralette, touching what I’ve been imagining every night since the first time I saw her like this.
She gasps, arching into me, and I smile against her lips.
Good girl…
Her legs part when I nudge forward, the heat spiking as I settle between them. My other hand drags up her thigh, over her smooth ass cheeks.
