37. Francesca
37
FRANCESCA
I couldn’t sleep last night. Not after Graham and I . . . I don’t even know what to call it. Hooked up sounds trite and made love sounds ridiculous all things considered.
All I know is that what happened between us last night was the single most erotic experience of my life. The way he touched me, tasted me, worshipped my body with a reverence that stole my breath. It’s seared into my memory, playing on a loop behind my eyelids every time I closed my eyes last night.
I exhale, staring into the mixing bowl in front of me, watching as I mindlessly stir. The wooden spoon drags through the little bit of remaining batter in slow, lazy circles, my brain still caught in a haze of warmth and exhaustion.
I woke up aching in the best way. The kind of ache that comes from being kissed within an inch of your life. From being touched, devoured, ruined.
A slow shiver rolls down my spine, heat pooling low in my belly at the memory. His mouth. His hands. His voice.
And now, here I am. Baking a batch of blueberry muffins at six in the morning like some kind of besotted schoolgirl.
Is it weird to be obsessed with your husband?
I snort at the thought, shaking my head as I spoon batter into the muffin tins. The kitchen smells like cinnamon and brown sugar, a cozy contrast to the absolute filth running through my brain.
It’s fine. Totally fine.
I just needed something to do. Something productive. And Graham has told me for weeks that this is my house too, so I figured it’s time I start acting like it.
Definitely not because I couldn’t sleep, or because my body is still humming with the aftermath of last night, or because I needed to ground myself before I floated away entirely.
The oven timer dings. I reach for a dish towel and pull the tray out, inhaling deeply as the scent of freshly baked muffins fills the kitchen.
And then I hear him.
A low, sleep-roughened grunt, followed by the soft shuffle of bare feet against hardwood.
I glance over my shoulder just as Graham steps into the kitchen, hair a mess, his sweatpants slung low on his hips.
His eyes are still heavy with sleep, his jaw shadowed with more than the usual five o’clock shadow, and he’s so unfairly beautiful first thing in the morning that I almost drop the tray of muffins.
He blinks at me. Then at the muffins.
“I made these for you.” I hold up the tray, showing them off like I’m auditioning for a game show.
And in the most serious, groggy voice, he rumbles, “Are these sex muffins?”
Laughter peels out of me in waves. “I’m sorry,” I say, holding a hand to my stomach. “It’s just, what the hell are sex muffins ?”
He shuffles his weight, the apples of his cheeks flushing pink. “We had sex and you baked muffins for the first time.”
I’m shaking my head and popping the muffins out onto the cooling rack on the counter. “Unless you’re into somnophilia, we did not have sex last night.”
“Oral sex counts as sex and—wait, what’s somnophilia?”
I feel my own cheeks flush as I carefully set the muffin tray down. “Somnophilia is a kink for having sex with someone who is asleep.”
He grunts, rubbing a hand over his face. “No, definitely not into that.” He pauses, tilting his head. “Unless you are?”
“I don’t think so?” I feel my cheeks get hot as the image of Graham fucking me while I’m sleeping. I have to clear my throat. It’s a little too early to get turned on. “I was just making a point that oral sex, while amazing, is not the same as, you know, actual sex.” I busy myself with transferring the rest of the muffins to the cooling rack, needing a break from his gaze.
“Francesca.” His deep voice pulls my gaze to him without conscious thought.
“Graham.” I try to mimic his tone but don’t quite reach it.
He prowls toward me, still sleep-roughened but more intense. Like this shift in conversation woke him up. “I just woke up, so you’re going to have to spell it out for me, sunshine.”
I lick my suddenly dry lips, tilting my head back to meet his gaze. “I’m just saying, technically speaking , no penetration occurred, so . . .” I trail off, arching a brow and smirking at him. I don’t know how we got to this conversation, but it’s sort of endearing and entertaining to see his feathers ruffled.
A wicked glint enters his eyes as he cages me against the island. “I don’t know, wife. I seem to remember my fingers and tongue penetrating that tight cunt of yours.”
I sputter out a nonsensical word, shocked by his words. I shouldn’t be, not when I’m basically egging him on.
His fingers brush the edge of my camisole, just once, just enough to make my stomach clench. His voice drops, low and smooth. “But if you’re telling me you want to feel my cock inside of you, I’m listening, wife.”
Heat pools low in my belly, and I press my thighs together. “I like it when you listen.”
He bends down, dragging his nose along the column of my neck. “I’ll always listen to you, Francesca.”
I exhale shakily, my eyes fluttering closed as his lips brush against my pulse point. His words wrap around me, sincere and tender despite the heat simmering between us.
“Graham,” I whisper, my hands coming up to grip his biceps, the firm muscle flexing beneath my touch. I turn toward him, stealing a soft, quick kiss. Before I pull away, I murmur, “I have to go to work, but I highlighted a few things on my current book you might be interested in.”
Graham’s eyes darken as his gaze drops to my mouth. “A little light reading, hm?” His voice is a low rumble that makes my toes curl.
My smile grows. “Exactly. Now eat a sex muffin. I made them for you.”
His lips twitch a second before laughter tumbles free.
Goddamn you and your infectious laugh, Graham Carter.
I pop the last muffin onto the cooling rack and wipe my hands on a dish towel, the warmth of Graham’s laugh still curling inside my chest. This morning feels different. Lighter. Like we’ve crossed some invisible threshold, not just physically, but in the way we fit into each other’s spaces.
I rinse the mixing bowl in the sink, feeling his gaze burn into my back as I move through the kitchen. There’s something so domestic and dangerous about this. The way he watches me, possessive but content. The way I linger in his orbit like I belong there.
I press my lips together, ignoring the swoop in my stomach as I hang the dish towel over the oven handle and check the time. If I don’t leave soon, I’ll be late.
“Leaving soon?” he asks between bites of his second muffin.
I won’t lie and say I don’t love that he’s enjoying them.
“Thought I’d walk to the bookstore today. It’s nice out, and Romeo and I could use the steps.”
He dusts his hands over the sink. “I’ll walk you.”
Warmth spreads across my breastbone. “Oh, you don’t need to do that. I’m sure you have plenty of work to do. I have Romeo to keep me company.”
He glances at my dog, who’s been studiously sitting at Graham’s feet for the last twenty minutes, watching like a hawk for any crumbs. “That fluffy meatball isn’t fooling anyone. He’ll just as soon beg for treats as protect you.”
I chuckle. “Maybe, but it’s Avalon Falls, Graham. The crime rate is like non-existent here.”
“Still. I’m walking my wife and our dog to work.” He’s already pulling on his shoes like there was never any question about him coming with me. Like I’m something to take care of. To keep safe.
And for once, I don’t want to fight it.