Page 33 of Mended Hearts

Tacos, coffee, and half of some nineties chick-flick.

Oh, sweet baby Jesus.His lips grazing over my scars in a silent benediction—like he didn’t need the story to pay homage to their existence. The delicious lash of his tongue against my clit as he ate me out like his life depended on it. Every touch came with a tenderness that screamed of something far beyond a hookup.

Not that I had any real frame of reference.

Oh, holy hell. I thought I’d dreamed all of it.

Fuck, fantasizing about Ollie had already cut Throbby Wand-Kenobi’s time-to mission success in half this year.

I…

We…

Oh my god.

Ohmygod.

Oh. My.God!

A frenetic peek beneath the sheets confirmed we were gloriously, stupendously naked. And that anaconda he’d had hidden in his pants? Definitely aware it was morning. Was that rug burn stinging the shit out of my back?

And I…we…

Like he could sense my heart slamming against my ribs, Ollie’s eyes opened. The sunlight turned them more gold than brown, and when he smiled—damn.

Just…damn.

Still in a daze, I barely managed to engage my facial muscles as he reached for me, those broad fingers warm against my cheek before gliding down to cup my jaw.

“Good morning, Trouble,” he rasped.

Three simple words. And my heart liquefied like a cartoon character melting into a puddle.

“Morning,” I breathed dreamily.

“You good?”

I nodded gingerly. His thumb grazed over my cheekbone, expression softening. I looked then—really looked—at the gold saturating his beautiful skin. I couldn’t stop myself from reaching out and touching him.

Oliver Hart was in my bed, looking at me like I was the sunrise. And my body felt suspiciously like goo.

“You look happy,” he observed, voice still rough with sleep. Satisfaction sparked in his eyes—golden-brown and soft and full of something dangerous.

It was a struggle to remember how to swallow, nodding as my fingers skimmed the expanse of his glorious shoulders, and his eyes fluttered shut in contentment.

“Yeah. You?”

“Never fucking better,” he breathed, tugging my wrist up to pepper kisses along it. “Kinda thought I was dreaming.”

“Same.”

“You feel convincingly real.”

I chuckled. Pinched him. Grinned when he scowled. “Sorry. Just checking.”

“Trouble,” he murmured, amusement coloring the word. “Want some breakfast? I make a mean eggs Benedict.”

“You won’t find anything but cornflakes and instant coffee out there,” I warned, then added—way too quickly—“grocery day.” Which was code for: I’m walking down the street and attempting to donate plasma today just to keep food on the table.

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