Page 51 of Moonlight and Mischief
The bed is empty and a flash of disappointment needles me.
Best friends who kiss. Good for stress.
So this was an outlet for her. A safe way to explore what she likes. I’m a test dummy.
I should break this off, tell her it’s real or it’s nothing. But she’s scared, flighty, unsure of herself. She’d choose nothing and I would lose her.
Damn it.
I drag myself out of bed and throw on fresh clothes. The house smells of butter and sugar, so I’m not surprised to find Marigold in the kitchen, polka dotted oven mitts on her hands and a tray of steaming blueberry muffins on the stovetop.
The real issue is Marigold’s clothing or lack thereof. Under the vintage ruffled apron, she’s wearing a pair of boxers that look like the ones I typically sleep in, slung low on her hips, along with the world’s tiniest tank top. Where’s the loose shirt she slept in? A mile of midriff stretches between her top and bottoms. If she takes the apron off, I may collapse where I stand.
She turns those blue-green eyes on me, and I jerk forward, trying to act passably normal despite my heart pounding.
“Good morning, Sunshine,” I say, kissing her cheek. It’s Sunday, a whole day to relax - once the leadership debrief is finished.
Reaching for plates in the cabinet, I startle as she swats at me. “Go sit down,” she commands.
I prop my fists on my hips. “If you think you’re going to serve me while I sit there and do nothing, you’re damn wrong. You do everything for everyone else, but in this house, I get to take care of you.” She blinks at my declaration while I grab two plates and select the biggest muffin for her. I can’t help but smirk at her wide-eyed surprise as I cut open the muffins and slather them with butter.
The fridge is devoid of fruit, but at least we have milk, and I set two glasses of it on the table beside our plates, before settling in a chair and pulling her down into my lap.
“Really? I’m eating my breakfast from here?” she quips, slinging an arm around my neck.
“Yeah,” I say, grinning up at her, far too pleased with myself for the little that I did. “I like you right where I can keep an eye on you.”
Rolling her eyes, she takes her first bite. I’m captivated as her tongue swipes her lip to get the small crumbs.
With my free hand, I lift my breakfast and take a bite. But the hints of cleavage under that apron are wildly distracting. After my second bite nearly missesmy mouth, I admit, “I think it would be easier for me to eat if you were wearing a bit more clothing.”
She scowls at me. “That’s ridiculous.” And then, proving a point, she unties the apron and tosses it over the empty chair.
I try to keep my eyes on her face, but that lasts about half a second, before I’m hungrily surveying the way her breasts stretch the thin, black fabric, barely contained.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
My fingers skim the waistband of the boxers on her hips. I can’t help dipping a finger under the edge, biting back a groan when I feel nothing but smooth skin. Suddenly, I’m not hungry for breakfast. In fact, I might starve to death if I don’t get my mouth on her skin..
Marigold tilts her head, her smile turning sly. “Sorry, I’d better go get dressed,” she teases before popping to her feet and taking a step toward her bedroom. My hand shoots out and grabs her wrist, pulling her back into my lap. “Oh, did I get it wrong? Am I wearing too much?” She’s too sassy for her own good.
The most beautiful flush stains her cheeks, spreading down her neck. I close my mouth over her inner wrist still constrained in my hand, biting the skin gently. The contented sigh slipping from her mouth is intoxicating.
She reaches for the hem of her shirt, and I band an arm across her stomach to stop her. “If you take anything off, I’ll miss my meeting.”
“We can’t have that.” She squirms against me. Rose gold hair cascades against my cheek.
“Not only the meeting. I probably wouldn’t let you leave this cabin for days.”
“Oh, no.” She draws out the words, her voice dripping with honeyed sarcasm while her hand comes up and she slowly slides the spaghetti strap over the edge of her shoulder.
A low growl escapes me, my control slipping. “Marigold, I’m serious.” I can’t peel my eyes away from that stretch of bare skin from neck to shoulder and the way it dips above her clavicle.
“So am I,” she whispers, temptation in her eyes.
That’s all it takes.
Shoving our breakfast dishes back, I lift her onto the table. Her blue-green eyes glow from within, and those pillowy lips part in surprise. Her knees separate as I stand and press into her.
