Then he rolled into me, pressing a knee between my legs so I was forced to hook one around his hip and both his arms gathered me close and held me tight.
“Sleep, baby,” he whispered and now his voice was quiet but hoarse.
“Okay. ‘Night, honey.”
One of his hands slid up my spine and into my damp hair then it slid through.
And back.
Then he whispered, “’Night, baby.”
His hand slid through my hair.
And again.
Moments later I fell asleep pressed deep and held tight to Chace Keaton.
Chapter Ten
Halfway Gone
Chace’s eyes opened and he blinked away sleep.
The strong Colorado sun was fighting his curtains and, as usual, winning.
Chace felt his body get tight.
Something was wrong.
He stared across the pillows at the empty bed.
He was on his side, one hand shoved under the pillow at his head, his other arm thrown wide.
No Faye.
Instantly, it felt like a hand reached in and gripped his gut in an iron tight fist.
Not a man prone to fanciful thoughts, not one he could recall in his life, it still hit him that the way his life had swirled down the toilet, it wouldn’t be a surprise that the last three weeks had been a dream. A cruel, twisted, dream.
A taste of sweet.
The touch of an angel.
A trace of a miracle.
Then gone.
He smelled bacon frying.
The moment he did, he rolled, threw back the covers, angled out of bed and prowled out of the room, down the hall, through the arch and toward the kitchen where he took five steps then stopped dead.
Because Faye Goodknight was standing at his stove at the island.
Faye Goodknight.
In his house.
In his kitchen.
At his stove.
All this the morning after she gave him her virginity and spent the night in his arms in his bed.
She was wearing the shirt he wore yesterday. It was unbuttoned and only partially covered the sexy as all fuck sapphire blue silk nightie that had thick lace at the top and, he’d seen last night but couldn’t see now, another rim of thick lace at the hem as well as deep slits up each side. A nightie the likes of which he figured no virgin would wear. The likes his ex-virgin was definitely currently wearing.
Her head was turned slightly to the side to take a sip from one of his coffee mugs.
But her eyes slid to him and she didn’t take a sip.
She lowered the mug to the counter by the stove and snapped, “You spoiled the surprise.”
“What?” he whispered, unable to make his voice louder but she still heard him because she answered.
“I’m making you breakfast in bed.” Her eyes moved the length of him then came back to his. “Or I was.”
Her words and her tone jerked him out of his stupor and he kept prowling toward her.
Her pretty, makeup-less face lost its mock annoyance and she stared at his advance, her body turning toward him as he rounded the island. She looked like a doe caught in headlights, just as terrified, just as frozen and just as cute.
She forced out a, “Chace –” but that’s as far as she got before he hooked her at the waist with an arm and yanked her into his body. He drove his other hand in her hair, cupped her head, tilted it to one side, slanted his then he took her mouth.
When he did, he took his time.
He didn’t break the kiss until he’d had his fill.
Or his fill for now.
When he lifted his lips from hers, he opened his eyes to see hers follow suit far more slowly. She did this often. Chace liked it. It made her look like she was waking from a really good dream.
He slid his hand down to curl it around the back of her neck and he whispered, “Mornin’, baby.”
She blinked and he watched her lick her lips, his gut clenching a good way this time, a fucking good one and she breathed, “That sounds a lot better in real life.”
Chace grinned.
“Not that it isn’t good on the phone,” she hastened to add.
Chace’s grin turned into a smile.
“Or that the phone isn’t real life,” she continued.
Chace just kept smiling.
“Just that it’s better in person,” she finished.
Chace’s body started shaking with his chuckle.
He might be amused but she was absolutely not wrong.
He bent his head, pressed his face in her neck and whispered against her skin, “You feelin’ okay?”
“Yeah,” she replied and his arm gave her a squeeze.
“Inside,” he clarified gently. “Okay?”
“A little achy,” she told him quietly. “Not a bad achy. Just a heretofore unknown, um… achy.”
“Bath didn’t help,” he muttered.
For some reason, his words made her relax deeper into his frame.
After this, her soft musical voice came at him, still quiet. “It isn’t bad but I’ll take some ibuprofen with breakfast.”
He lifted his head and looked down at her in his kitchen, his shirt, his arms in the morning.
He was wrong.
Or maybe it was just that yesterday, she was fucking pretty.
Today, she was beautiful.
And today, she was his.
She tipped her head to the side.
“Do you have any?”
He wasn’t following.
“Any what?”
“Ibuprofen.”
Right. She was achy.