I’m not going there. Not yet.
Not when it’s only the morning after and I’m still sore inside and sex shouldn’t be making me wonder what life could be like with him. Yet, it’s hard not to, when right now this moment feels so good. Bright and new, comfortable and sweet, me perched in one of Landon’s oversized shirts on a barstool while he makes breakfast shirtless – and feeds more of the ingredients to the circling, mewling cats than he does into the sizzling skillet.
I prop my chin on my hand, watching him fondly. “Hey, Landon, will there be anything left for us by the time you’re done?”
He glances over his shoulder with a grin. Mews hops up on the counter and yowls, demanding more, only to purr as Landon feeds him another diced bit of smoked ham that’s supposed to go in our omelets. “Now you know why they’re so fat.”
“Are they? I couldn’t tell under all that fur.”
“It’s pretty dense, isn’t it?” He strokes a palm over Mews’ ears, burying his fingers in short but thick gray fur. “They’re British blues. Shorthairs.”
I arch both brows. “Wow. Big words for someone I didn’t even know was a cat person.”
“I wasn’t, I just...” He glances back at me again. Something like chagrin darkens his eyes. “You asked me about them before. And I shut you down.”
I offer a smile. I get it now, I really do. “If you want to tell me, I'm all ears.”
He hesitates, then laughs and ducks his head, almost boyishly. “It’s my Mom’s fault, really. My aunt passed away, and left these two behind. My mother was supposed to take them, but her condo association doesn’t allow pets, other than those yappy purse dogs.” A rueful smile bends his lips up. “Never doubt a mother’s power of persuasion.”
Never doubt a man’s power of persuasion, either, when he looks at you with soft blue eyes and lets his gaze drift over your naked body with only a thin layer of cotton in the way.
My face goes hot. Sweat beads on my brow. I can’t resist the magnetism in his stare, and I slip off the stool, padding barefoot across the floor to tuck myself against his side, picking up a bit of ham to feed to Mews.
“I think it’s sweet,” I murmur, resting my head on his shoulder as his arm slides around my waist. “And I like these little guys. I think they like me, too.”
“Mew!” Mews looks at me, giving the definitive answer.
Seriously. Is it really this easy?
It can’t be.
We’ll be fighting again by noon.
*
All right, so maybe it is this easy. Some days.
I can’t believe how I’m just falling into things with Landon. We click.
We got lucky, too. Milah’s latest show was delayed due to technical issues, which meant no snotty little Barbie prancing around, offended that Landon’s not drooling all over her. We don't know where she's gone since leaving his place, and thankfully, we don't need to care.
It's nice without Landon rushing off to put out figurative and literal fires. Just two weeks of quiet, sun, sand, some heavy wordcounts, and the most amazing sex ever.
Well, there was one fire.
Down on the beach, a few drunken kids started a bonfire. It spread to an old abandoned fishing shack. We got one hell of a scare when we were sound asleep, naked and tangled in each other, and heard the familiar wail of sirens.
After that, though, Landon seemed to relax more.
If those kids caused one fire, then they were probably behind others – including the one in the beach house that had him so worried about his mystery arsonist. I try to convince myself, too, slip into a convenient explanation for my strange hoodie prowler.
I like Landon relaxed. His eyes go soft in a certain way, and I remember him dreaming of stars.
Only, now he looks at me the way he looked at those stars.
I want to say I can’t fall in love with Landon Strauss.
But I’m not sure I ever fell out in the first place.
Especially when, in the early morning light, I can’t take my eyes off him. I’m awake before him, for once.
We’re both early risers, but he’s usually out for his morning swim before I’m awake. I’m downstairs making coffee before he comes in.
Last night was a little rough. As we get closer and closer to Milah’s rescheduled gig, he’s been more and more tense, and his crew has called with more problems. Last night he’d almost called the whole thing off.
And when he was shaking with anger, when he was furious and drawn taut with every line of his body hard and angry...
I’d touched his arm.
And he’d responded, wrapping me up and holding me tight. Just breathing hard and fast, until he went lax against me.
It felt strangely like sheltering him. Keeping him safe.
But he’d been so exhausted by the time he climbed into bed that he didn’t even want to touch me. Just hold me, tangled close, skin to skin, quiet in the dark.
I tell myself this isn’t a relationship. Not formally. We’ve dodged defining it for the past two weeks.
Still, it's something. Something magic as I trace the beautiful, brooding lines of his sleeping face, following the path the sunlight makes over his storming brow.
He stirs under my touch. This man doesn’t wake up like most people, snuffling and groaning and yawning.
The way he wakes up is just another part of what makes him an animal: one moment he’s still and quiet, the next he’s stone-tense and flooded with this vibrant energy. It's like switching on the lights in a darkened room.
Instant alertness. Predatory and oh-so-ready to strike at any danger.
Like now. One blue eye snaps open, assesses me, before softening.
He catches my hand and turns his head to kiss my palm, stubble rasping over my skin.
“Morning,” he rumbles. “You’re actually awake.”
“You overslept today.” I can't hide my smile.
“Bull,” he growls, though there’s a touch of drowsy laughter in it. He rubs his cheek against my wrist, raising those little shivers I love. Goose-bump prickles everywhere. “Guess I’ll be skipping my morning swim.”
“You still have time. You don’t have to deal with Milah for a few more days.”
“Mm. But if I go swimming...”
Suddenly, he's got a better idea for his wake-up ritual.
He’s tumbling me onto my back, his naked body shifting gloriously over mine, taut-stretched and tawny and hard. His weight is hot as a furnace, burning into me.
Holy hell. There’s nothing to protect me from him; nothing to shield me from how every inch of my body electrifies just being near him.
He pins me with his bulk, barely holding himself up on braced arms that strain to hold the heaviness of packed muscle, forearms drawn tight and veins ridging against his skin, his tattoos.
And when he presses against me, his rousing cock slides against my belly, slipping lower. Teasing me until I can’t think of anything but wanting that feeling when he slides deep, takes me over, makes me wild.
“If I go swimming, Reb, I can’t do this,” he finishes, and leans down to capture my mouth, enveloping me fully in his stone-fire warmth. “We both know that'd be a damn shame. You're so fucking wet for me.”
He strokes between my legs, winning a sharp moan from my mouth. His fingers are already dangerously familiar with my body. I whimper against him, bucking my clit into his hands, which pull back to a comfortable, teasing distance.
Good morning can't even cover this. My naked breasts crushed against his chest, my entire body vulnerable, twined, until I feel like a rabbit caught in the wolf’s grasp.
And he consumes me – touching every inch of me, finding every place on my body that turns me from a woman into a lava flow of pure desire.
He’s the only one who’s ever known how to do this to me; how to possess me so utterly I just lose myself and can only cling to him for some kind of safe mooring. Always gasping for more as he traces me with his fingers, his tongue.
Sweet Jesus, his tongue.