Page 35 of Sex, Lies, and Margarita Mixes

CHASE

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We’re lying on the settee off of the kitchen, lightly covered with a blanket. She’s asleep with her head on my chest and her hand over my heart.

We’re both completely naked, sated. Her mouth is parted like she’s still trying to catch her breath.

I swear, I’ve never felt more content. There’s something about the silence. Not heavy. Not scared. Just… earned. Like we’ve fought every fight and finally remembered how to fall.

I run my fingers down her back, slow and careful. She shifts but doesn’t wake. Her leg is still thrown over mine like she owns me.

She does.

She always has.

In the early pre-dawn hours, I lift her and carry her to our room. I don’t want anyone walking in here and seeing us like this. She doesn’t wake, only settles into my chest. Pressing a kiss to her forehead, I tuck her into our bed and head to the shower.

I want to make her breakfast. Not because I need to… because I want to.

When the person you love more than life itself falls asleep with their heartbeat in sync with yours, the only thing left to do is make them their favorite pancakes and slather them with peanut butter.

Roxy is going to need them after everything.

I know she’s going to be starving.

I am. None of us ate dinner last night.

The kitchen’s quiet. The floor’s cool. I’m barefoot, shirtless, still tasting her on my lips… and I’m humming. I can’t fucking help it.

I’m halfway through flipping her favorite almond flour pancakes when I feel her behind me.

“You’re humming again,” she says, her voice thick with sleep and satisfaction.

Grinning, I turn. “You’re awake.”

“I woke up to the smell of food and the sound of cocky.”

Leaning over, I kiss her. She falls into me, and I happily say, “Sounds like heaven.”

“Sounds like you want to get licked again.” She flippantly says.

My body responds and I freeze. “I do.”

She winks, “Maybe if you’re a good boy,” and walks past me—wearing my T-shirt and nothing else—and steals a strawberry off the plate.

“You’re a menace. And you know I’m very, very good.” I murmur.

Shrugging, she smirks. “You married this menace. And I definitely know.”

I manage not to burn her pancakes. Plating them as she distracts me, I top them with fruit, and hand her a fork.

She sits on the counter—the counter where she screamed my name last night like she owns the damn kitchen.

Every part of this space still remembers her.

So do I.

We eat in silence for a minute.

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