Page 71 of Crown of Thorns
He’s asleep.
Dressed in his unusual black, flannel pajama pants and top—which, yes, were another gift bymoi—his glasses and messy curls are a huge turn-on.
I carefully slide them off his nose, and place them on his bedside table.
The classical music, the incense…it makes me take a deep breath.
Makes me feel a lot better.
Makes me feel so good that I don’t want to sleep yet.
I want the night to last.
Leaving the music on, I make my way to the kitchen area on my tippy toes.
And then I get to work. I love to bake, always have.
While Noah sleeps peacefully, I bake scones.
The oven’s heating up the place, vanilla and butter smell all over.
It’s weird. The kind that feels like a promise I’m not sure I’m ready to keep.
What would he dream about?
I creep close and watch his face.
He’s so beautiful it hurts.
Full, wet lips agape, his face smoothened out, not a care in the world.
I flick a curl off his forehead.
His skin’s soft as hell, with the faintest stubble along his jaw, and it somehow keeps me steady while the night drags on.
Every shift of the floorboards outside makes my chest tighten, like the whole world’s listening in.
One screw-up and it’s done. Noah’s career, my family, everything gone.
I keep telling myself I’m cool with all this.
That showing weakness is for suckers.
But when I’m alone?
Hell, all I want is him.
More than I’m ready to say.
In a few hours, he will wake up to the smell of freshly baked bread.
Humming to the music, I clean up the kitchen, then get ready for bed.
I put the warm scones on a plate and leave them to cool off.
Then I crawl into bed and press my chest to Noah’s back, curl my limbs around his, inhale his scent.
Press a kiss to his nape.
