8. Hayes
Hayes
Epilogue
“You’re burning the pancakes.”
Kelsie’s voice cuts through the morning quiet, followed by the slap of bare feet on hardwood as she darts across the kitchen. She swats my arm gently and steals the spatula from my grip.
I should argue. I’ve eaten charred MREs in war zones; a little crisp won’t kill me. But then she shifts, and the sunlight catches the curve of her belly under that threadbare shirt she stole from my side of the closet, and the words die in my throat.
Five months into her pregnancy, two years into our relationship, and every damn morning, I still wake up waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Every morning, she’s right here, keeping me on my toes.
Wrapping my fingers around her wrist, I take the spatula back and press my lips against her racing pulse.
“The butter is popping. If you think I’m going to let you get burned, you’ve got another thing coming.” Nudging her away from the pan, I take the two pancakes off and add more butter. “These are for me, anyway. Take a seat so I don’t ruin yours.”
Any time she’s on my mind, I get distracted. When she’s near, the last thing I think about is food. Even now, I want to kiss her instead and taste her sweetness.
As her mouth purses, she snags one of the sausage links I’d already finished before drifting over to the table. To spite me, she chooses to sit on the table instead of at one of the chairs. Parting her thighs, she swings her legs, a silent invitation.
Kelsie has turned into a troublemaker. It’s a surprise we don’t already have a kid or two running around her with the bait she tries to snag me with.
“The table’s for eating,” I grunt, pouring batter with excessive focus. The pancakes won’t burn. I will not let her win.
“I know.” Dragging the words out, she sinks her teeth into the sausage and moans at the taste. “I’m just waiting for you to get hungry.”
The spatula creaks in my grip. I flip the pancake when it starts to bubble.
“Already am,” I mutter, and her eyes flash—too damn smart, catching the double meaning. Her legs swing wider, toes curling as she leans back on her hands once she’s finished off the link, all lazy confidence.
That’s it. The food can wait. Doesn’t take much to reheat it.
I turn off the stove with a click. The pan gets shoved off the burner. Five steps, and I’m between her thighs, hands braced on the table to cage her in. Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t back down, just tilts her chin up, all challenge.
“I’m not just hungry, Kels. You’ve got me starving. ”
My thumb swipes the gloss from her lips, and she licks at it—always pushing, always testing. This time, I don’t play along.
I drop to my knees.
Her breath shudders out in a rush, fingers scrambling for purchase on the table’s edge as I drag her to the edge of the table.
Shoving her thighs apart, I discover my stolen shirt is the only thing she’s wearing.
Meaning, she came out here with the full intention to continue where last night ended.
Growling deep in the back of my throat, I give her what she wants. Leaning in, the first slow lick makes her back arch. The second steals her voice entirely.
Like her, I can get her worked up, too. I know her body like the back of my hand.
By the time I’m done?
She won’t remember what hunger even means.