Page 62 of Mad Rivals
It’s slow and sleepy and perfect all at once, and it feels like this one’s different. I feel a pulse of emotions for him as he does this to me in the dark, as if he couldn’t wait until morning to be with me. As if whatever we have is so strong that he was awakened in the middle of the night needing me. And I need him, too. He’s filling me with his cock, yes, but he’s also filling some need in me I didn’t even know existed until he was there to fill it.
I’m lost to him as he makes love to me in the dark. I want to lean into him, to kiss him and hold him and feel him, but this is good too.
And it’s as I start to come that I realize I’m not sure I’ll ever have enough of this man.
I’m falling already. It’s too fast, and I’m still not quite sure what his intentions are, but I’m in this.
Deep.
CHAPTER 25: Kennedy Van Buren
Scrambled
When I wake in the morning, I glance at the clock to see it’s after nine. I don’t typically sleep in quite this late, but we were up late and then up again in the middle of the night. The other side of the bed is empty, and my first thought is that I hope I’m not being a rude guest overstaying my welcome. I wonder how long he’s been awake.
I force myself up, and my entire body feels deliciously achy after he put me through the wringer last night.
I pad over to the bathroom and do my thing, and I spot a T-shirt on the counter. I wonder if he left it out for me, and as I pick it up to bring it to my nose to smell it, I spot a pair of boxer shorts under it.
I slip the shirt over my head since I feel weird walking out into his condo buck naked. What if he has guests? I pull the shorts on, too. He thought of everything, and I can’t help but think how romantic even this small act is.
I walk into the kitchen to find him standing at the counter stirring something in a bowl. I stand on the other side of the counter and stare at him.
“Good morning,” he says, and he’s more chipper than I am after the amount of wine I drank last night. “Do you prefer your eggs scrambled or fried?”
“My eggs?” I repeat stupidly, and he chuckles.
“Yeah. I’m making you breakfast. Scrambled?”
Scrambled? He means, like, mybrainright now. Right?
“Sure,” I murmur. He’s making me breakfast?
“I have sausage links ready to go in the pan. I was just waiting for you to get up. And I’m whipping up a batch of my special protein-packed chocolate peanut butter pancakes. Unless you have food allergies. Do you?”
I shake my head, still a little stunned he’s doing all this.
“Do you want anything else?” he asks.
“Sounds downright gourmet compared to my usual breakfast.”
He laughs. “What do you usually have?”
“A cup of yogurt. Sometimes just a protein shake,” I admit.
“Well, that won’t do at Casa de Bradley,” he says. “The coffee pot is full, and there’s cream in the fridge and brown sugar syrup in the cabinet above the pot. If you want orange juice, there’s some in the fridge.”
“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.” I’ve never had a man cook me breakfast after a night like last night.
Okay, fine. Full disclosure, I’ve never had a night like last night.
“It’s no trouble at all. I actually enjoy cooking, and I try to make a batch of pancakes every Sunday so I have breakfast ready to go all week. In the offseason, anyway.” He shrugs, and he pours the batter onto a prepared sheet pan sitting beside him on the counter.
“You use a sheet pan for pancakes?”
He nods. “And get this, I cut them intosquaresinstead ofcircles. Weird, right?”
“I can honestly say I’ve never had a square pancake. Bring it on, Bradley.”
