Page 108 of Stolen Vows

“Francesca, fuck. Your mouth . . .” His words cut off on a strangled moan as I swallow around him. I look up at him through my lashes, holding his heated gaze as I work him over with lips. “Fuck. I can’t—I’m going to come, sunshine.” His face twists with pleasure, a muscle jumping in his jaw as he fights for control. I hum around him in encouragement, wanting to taste him, to feel him lose himself down my throat.

“Francesca, I’m—” His grip tightens in my hair, just on the edge of pain. It sends a bolt of lust straight to my core. I double my efforts, stroking and sucking, taking him as deep as I can.

With a guttural groan, he comes, flooding my mouth with his release. I swallow around him, working him through it until he's spent and panting above me.

I release him with a soft pop, licking my lips as I sit back on my heels. His chest rises and falls in heavy, uneven breaths. His head tips back against the couch, jaw clenched, like he’s fighting to regain control of his body. But I see it in his eyes when he finally looks at me. He’s wrecked. And I did that.

Chest heaving, eyes glazed with pleasure. My husband looks undone.

Pride and satisfaction warm my veins at the sight. I did that. I reduced this strong, controlled man to a shuddering mess with just my mouth.

“Francesca,” he rasps, tugging me up and into his lap. And then he surprises me when he takes my mouth in a kiss so intense, so possessive, I feel etched into my bones.

37

FRANCESCA

I couldn’t sleeplast night. Not after Graham and I . . . I don’t even know what to call it.Hooked upsounds trite andmade lovesounds ridiculous all things considered.

All I know is that what happened between us last night was the single most erotic experience of my life. The way he touched me, tasted me, worshipped my body with a reverence that stole my breath. It’s seared into my memory, playing on a loop behind my eyelids every time I closed my eyes last night.

I exhale, staring into the mixing bowl in front of me, watching as I mindlessly stir. The wooden spoon drags through the little bit of remaining batter in slow, lazy circles, my brain still caught in a haze of warmth and exhaustion.

I woke up aching in the best way. The kind of ache that comes from being kissed within an inch of your life. From being touched, devoured, ruined.

A slow shiver rolls down my spine, heat pooling low in my belly at the memory. His mouth. His hands. His voice.

And now, here I am. Baking a batch of blueberry muffins at six in the morning like some kind of besotted schoolgirl.

Is it weird to be obsessed with your husband?

I snort at the thought, shaking my head as I spoon batter into the muffin tins. The kitchen smells like cinnamon and brown sugar, a cozy contrast to the absolute filth running through my brain.

It’s fine. Totally fine.

I just needed something to do. Something productive. And Graham has told me for weeks that this is my house too, so I figured it’s time I start acting like it.

Definitely not because I couldn’t sleep, or because my body is still humming with the aftermath of last night, or because I needed to ground myself before I floated away entirely.

The oven timer dings. I reach for a dish towel and pull the tray out, inhaling deeply as the scent of freshly baked muffins fills the kitchen.

And then I hear him.

A low, sleep-roughened grunt, followed by the soft shuffle of bare feet against hardwood.

I glance over my shoulder just as Graham steps into the kitchen, hair a mess, his sweatpants slung low on his hips.

His eyes are still heavy with sleep, his jaw shadowed with more than the usual five o’clock shadow, and he’s so unfairly beautiful first thing in the morning that I almost drop the tray of muffins.

He blinks at me. Then at the muffins.

“I made these for you.” I hold up the tray, showing them off like I’m auditioning for a game show.

And in the most serious, groggy voice, he rumbles, “Are these sex muffins?”

Laughter peels out of me in waves. “I’m sorry,” I say, holding a hand to my stomach. “It’s just, what the hell aresex muffins?”

He shuffles his weight, the apples of his cheeks flushing pink. “We had sex and you baked muffins for the first time.”

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