Page 61 of The SEAL's Duchess
He could take her right here, right now. Lift her onto the counter and lose himself while the bacon burned. His body sure as hell wanted to. But this moment was about more than hunger. Too precious to rush.
He kissed her throat again, slower, lingering, and she pressed into him, giving him more.
“Breakfast first,” she breathed. “I need to get my blood sugar back up. It’s depleted, you know.”
His mouth curved against her skin. “I’ll take my chances.”
She laughed. “You’ll be catching me when I drop.” Then she lifted her head and framed his face with her hands. Pressed a slow, heated kiss to his lips.
God, she felt so good in his arms.
Her stomach growled loudly, and she buried her face against his chest.
Ryder chuckled and kissed the top of her head. “Guess you win this round. Let’s eat.”
She turned back to the skillet, sliding eggs and bacon onto two plates.
The sweep of her waist, the slope of her bare legs, the way his shirt clung to her—Christ, it was too much.
Sex was safe. It ended. But this? This sank deep in your bones and made a man start thinking about forever.
The thought should’ve sent him running. Instead, all he wanted was to pull her closer. To keep her here. In his kitchen. In his shirt. In his life. Which was insane, because she lived in England. This was temporary. Just a handful of days stolen from reality.
He breathed out a slow breath, sipped his coffee.
He’d deal with reality later. Not the flight back to England. Not the goodbye coming for them both.
Right now, there was just her—barefoot in his kitchen, cooking him breakfast like she hadn’t just broken something wide open inside him.
This moment. This woman.
The one who’d already taken more of him than he’d ever meant to give.
26
After breakfast,Ivy padded into the living room while Ryder cleared up the breakfast dishes. Her bare feet were silent on the hardwood. Her ribs protested with every breath, a dull tenderness blooming along her left side—a souvenir from yesterday's seatbelt doing its job. The wood stove still radiated warmth from the night before, the residual heat reminding her of everything that had changed in the span of only a few hours.
She’d slept in Ryder’s arms. Woken in his bed. Let him feed her, shield her, hold her. Let him strip her down until all she could do was shatter for him, her body arching into firelight, into the fierce certainty of his touch.
This morning was quiet—coffee pot humming, bacon and eggs. The peace she’d never let herself hope for and now scared her most, because the hunger hadn’t burned itself out. It had only deepened, stretching under her skin, settling deep inside, making her ache not just for his body but for this.
For mornings that felt like belonging.
The clink of Ryder washing dishes drifted from the kitchen. Domestic sounds of routines shared between two people whobelonged in the same space. The kinds of sounds she’d never paid attention to before, but now they made her heart flutter.
She pulled out her phone to call George and swore under her breath. Ten percent battery. Her charger was at the hotel, and it certainly hadn’t been high on her list of priorities last night.
As if.
Still, no time to worry about it now.
She dialed George’s number and waited for him to pick up. Her gaze wandered to the bookshelf beside the fireplace. Family photos lined the top shelf—Ryder with his mom and dad, Ryder with his brothers—Caleb grinning, Wyatt scowling, eyes dark with secrets.
Then she saw it—tucked between the others.
Ryder, younger, wearing dress blues. Beside him stood a blonde woman with sharp cheekbones and intelligent eyes. She looked effortlessly beautiful, polished without trying, a woman who probably never had a hair out of place.
Miranda. Had to be.
