Page 126 of Take This Heart
“Did I wake you up?” My mouth brushes hers and I kiss her lightly, my hands wandering to her backside.
“I’m not sure, but I needed to get up anyway.”
“What are your plans for today?”
“I need to get serious about finding those letters and get back to Dad...preferably by tonight.” She pauses. “I can get Tully to take me back if you’re not ready.”
I lean my forehead against hers. “I came to win you back.”
She runs her hands over my head. I think maybe she likes my stubble as much as she liked my hair. “I’m sorry I made you feel like you’d lost me. I was just lost, period. It was selfish of me to leave town without telling you. I didn’t think about how it came across.”
“I thought you didn’t believe me and that you might be done with me.”
“I can’t quit you, baby,” she sings.
I laugh, kissing my way down her neck.
“I didn’t take you for a Led Zeppelin fan.”
She holds up her finger. ”Little known fact: that song was written by Willie Dixon and originally sung by Otis Rush.”
I straighten, grinning at her. “You’re right, I did not know that.”
“Grandpa Otis made sure everyone knew it. He appreciated his name,” she laughs, “and it bugged him that most people thought it originated with Led Zeppelin.”
“Well, I’m glad I learned the truth.”
“You would’ve made it up to him by having Otis Redding on your playlist. He was a big fan of him too, of course.” She sighs. “I need coffee. Someone kept me up the past two nights.”
“Someone kept me up too.” I smirk and she reaches out and slides her hand up and down my dick.
“So I see.” She scoots off the counter and I think she’s about to drag me back to her bedroom, but she takes off, calling, “Sex will be our reward…later. Otherwise, we won’t leave the bed!”
I groan, adjusting myself, and get dressed before I go downstairs. When I walk into the kitchen, the coffee is brewing and she’s already pouring scrambled eggs into a pan.
“That was fast,” I say. “What can I do to help?”
“Get your coffee. There’s orange juice and fruit in the fridge, if you could grab that, please. Then have a seat.”
I grab everything, including the silverware and napkins she’s set on the countertop, and take it to the table.
“Thanks. This looks good,” I tell her when she brings the plates of scrambled eggs.
She makes a face. “I don’t have bread, sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. I’m getting a home-cooked meal.”
She laughs. “If you think this is a home-cooked meal, you’re hurting.”
I shake my head. “Not hurting. This is just nice. I like this house too. I’ve always loved this street.”
She nods. “Me too. Frank Lloyd Wright wasn’t a fan, but I appreciate the European influences.”
“And I appreciate your wealth of little-known facts.”
“Youmust’veknown that one though,” she says.
I grin. “I did. Now, tell me about this house of yours. What is your dream house?”
