Shaking his head with a chuckle, he turns the dial on the stove and rests his spatula on the counter. Before I know what’s happening, he marches right toward me and kisses me with a furious passion.
He’s taking possession of me, and I want him to possess me.
Every piece of me.
I’ve written about my characters feeling this way, but I don’t think I’ve ever actually felt it myself. I get it now, only it’s a stronger emotion than I really ever knew.
I don’t even blink when his hands grab my backside so he can lift me on the counter to intensify our connection. Our hands are all over each other just like they were last night.
I’ve fallen under his spell.
There’s no way he’s feeling what I’m feeling, right?
I’m sure he has sleepovers all the time. Mornings after are more than likely the norm for him.
But then again, we didn’t have sex, so is this really a morning after?
Does he do this for the women he hasn’t slept with?
Whydidn’twe have sex?
Technically, Katie was right. He did get in my panties, but I think she would be surprised to learn the deed wasn’t actually done.
Gah! Why am I in my head asking myself a million questions when his lips are on mine?
Just as I focus on his lips, he pulls them from mine, holding my face in his rough hands and leans his forehead against mine.
“You can have as many sleepovers as you want, City Mouse.”
Great, now I’m thinking how many sleepovers he’s had and with how many different women he’s had them with. Yuck.
He lifts an eyebrow and tilts his head, curious why I’ve had a sudden change of mood, but he doesn’t push.
“You stay there. I have to finish breakfast.”
“I can help.”
“No way, I want to feed you.”
Before he turns the stove back on, he pours me a cup of coffee. “Milk and sugar?”
“Yes, please.”
He makes my coffee with almost as much of the finesse he puts into the kiss he burns onto my cheek when he hands me my cup and gets back to his cooking.
As I watch him back at the stovetop, his pace seems a bit frantic. He’s fumbling with the spatula as he tries to flip the contents of his pan, whereas minutes ago, he was sure-handed and seemed to know exactly what he was doing.
I sure hope my anxiousness hasn’t rubbed off on him. If it has, it’s my responsibility to make him feel better.
“So whatcha making?” I offer from my perch on the counter. “You sure I can’t help with anything?”
He looks up from the stove, and his eyes are trying to tell me so many things, but I have no idea what.
“No, I have this.” He turns, making himself at home. Taking eggs out of the fridge, he places the carton on the counter, opens it, and then just stares at it for a beat, searching for what’s next, and I’m wondering the same.
What exactly is next?
“Over easy okay?”