Page 60 of The SEAL's Duchess
She was cooking eggs in his cast iron, steam rising from the coffeepot, and she’d found the good bacon in his freezer—the thick-cut stuff he usually saved for special occasions.
She looked like she belonged. In his kitchen, in his shirt,in his life.
His body reacted instantly—hard and wanting—but what burned underneath was the surge of hope.
Hope.
It felt like a trap. A warm, perfect, fucking trap.
Because once you started wanting mornings like this again? You remembered what it felt like to lose them.
This was what he’d sworn off. The quiet claim of someone moving through his world as if it was already theirs. Miranda had left. Ivy could too. But, fuck, he couldn’t look away.
As if she sensed him, Ivy glanced over her shoulder. Her cheeks flushed when she saw him—shirtless, sleep-rough, staring at her like a starving man. But under the flush of her skin and the curve of her smile, he caught it—a flicker of something raw.
Like maybe she was afraid too.
“Morning.” Her voice was still husky from sleep. From last night.
“Morning.” He pushed off the frame, stepping closer. “You’re up early.”
“Couldn’t sleep.” She turned back to the skillet, but her fingers tightened around the spatula. “I hope you don’t mind. I raided your kitchen. I was hungry—and I figured you might be too.”
He should tell her she didn’t have to do this. That cooking breakfast didn’t erase the storm outside, or the thousand miles that would drag her back to England—that he needed boundaries.
Instead, he kept moving toward her, pulled by something deeper than hunger.
“Smells good.” He leaned against the counter, close enough to catch the warm, clean scent of her. “You look even better—in my shirt.”
Color climbed her throat. “It was the first thing I found.” There were still faint marks on her neck from his mouth, and her nipples peaked against the thin cotton.
Fuck.
“I’m not complaining.”
She smiled, and something in his chest unknotted. Being here in the kitchen with her. It was easy. Comfortable. As ifthey’d done this a hundred mornings before instead of waking up together for the first time.
“Coffee?” she asked, nodding at the pot.
“Yeah. Just black, thanks.”
She reached for a mug—his favorite, the one Ellie had painted with lopsided stars—and poured it full. When she handed it to him, their fingers brushed. A fleeting touch, but it lit through him like last night all over again—charged but quieter. More intense.
He took a sip and groaned. “Strong enough to strip paint, exactly how I like it.” He smiled at her over the rim of his mug. “How’d you know?”
“Lucky guess.” She nudged the eggs in the skillet, spatula scraping, and cocked her head at him. “You don’t exactly screamcaramel latte.”
Christ, this—her moving around his kitchen, wearing his clothes, feeding him—it felt so right.
And scared the shit out of him.
Ryder shoved the thought aside, refusing to let his head ruin what his heart craved. He set the mug down and reached for her, brushing a strand of hair back from her face. “Ivy.”
Her eyes flicked to his, hunger sparking there that matched his own. He bent and pressed his lips to the curve of her neck, right over the hard beat of her pulse.
She made a needy sound as she turned, her free hand curling against his bare chest. The spatula clattered against the pan, forgotten.
“Ryder.” His name was barely air.
