Page 122 of Three Reckless Words

Not just the usual parts—although he worships them plenty too—but other things as well.

He nips at my earlobes and kisses my neck and the back of my knees, my sides, my feet, everything he thinks I might like.

He knows when to give and take.

Just like he knows when to ask and when to surprise me.

Honestly, that’s a freaking miracle in and of itself. A lot of younger dudes don’t have theegoto ask, much less improvise.

Not just ‘do you like this, babe?’ but ‘do you like it when I touch you here, or here?’ He’s mastered the art without words.

And holy hell, do I like it.

This scary, sexy, slightly deranged man makes me come like I never knew I could. I’m pretty sure my soul has transcended matter into pure orgasmic light.

I may have seen whole lifetimes flash before my eyes.

Right now, I perch on the counter, just like I did when he licked me so good, as he picks up making the pancakes he started before Rina butted in.

Rina, the ex-wife with a severe case of resting bitch face.

That’s almost enough to pierce my happy afterglow.Almost.

I don’t know if I have the courage to bring that up now—he mentioned bad sex etiquette before—so I just nod to the expert pancake flipping going on.

“I bet you could hire a whole team of chefs.”

Just like my parents did. My mom probably hasn’t made anything more complex than toast in years.

Archer glances at me. “You didn’t like having a cook growing up, huh?”

“I—” At his knowing look, I stop. “How did you know?”

“Call it intuition.” He grins at me when I purse my lips. “Also, you wrinkled your nose.”

“The food was always good, I mean. It wasn’t horrible.”

“But?”

“But they werepaidto feed me. Every meal was made with precision, not love. But that doesn’t make it bad.” I shrugbecause I don’t mean to sound bitter about my upbringing all the time, especially to a man who’s probably richer than my father. I’m guessing Archer also grew up ten times as privileged. “And say you’re ill—it’s not your mom bringing you homemade chicken soup and ice cream. It’s the happy chef who plates it up with a smile and doesn’t stick around for story time.”

“That’s why I learned to make pancakes.”

I laugh. “Is that Colt’s sick food?”

“No, I want him to feel like I’m invested. I’m always his dad, even when I’m busy with work.” He winks then, and it’s so different from the uptight grouch I first met that it strips my voice away. “I’ll admit I’m a sucker for takeout, though. The damn apps make it too easy these days and it saves us time some nights.”

“Me too,” I admit, like we’ve just shared a dirty secret. “I had an apartment in Springfield. Mostly because I wanted to escape my family. I’m pretty basic with cooking. I just haven’t had much time to practice.”

“You’re never too old to learn, Winnie. Making food isn’t air traffic control.” He slides some pancakes onto a plate. It’s beautifully weird that such a big man gets so tender and gentle with cooking. And, on occasion, with me. “Want to flip the next one?”

“Hmm. I think I like watching you do it better.”

I lean up to kiss his cheek. Then I stiffen, because even though it felt right in the moment, was it really?

Oh, God.

Yes, we’re having amazing sex, but I don’t know if I’m overstepping boundaries.

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