Chapter Eighteen
Oliver
I wake up to the smell of coffee and butter. Immediately, my heart starts hammering against my ribs. Do I have an intruder? Fuck, did those people from the shop follow me home? And why do my sheets feel so soft? Am I naked?
The answer to all of that appears when Matt walks into the room in just his sweatpants. Right, this isn’t my home. But it could very well be heaven because…just look at that man!
“Oh, good, you’re up,” he says, and his lips stretch into a smile. I kissed those lips yesterday. Multiple times. Wish I could kiss them now, too.
He walks to my side of the bed, where I’m still lying, and takes my lips into a light kiss. Did I say any of that out loud?
“Are you okay?” he asks against my lips.
“Mmm hmm.” I’m great, actually.
He smiles against my lips, and that makes something flutter in my stomach.
He pulls back before I can drag him back to bed. “I made breakfast,” he declares.
Oh, right, the butter and coffee.
“What time is it?” I ask. Thank god, he ended the kiss before tongues got involved because my mouth stinks.
He takes out his phone to check. “Almost seven. I found some sweats that might not fall right off of you and a T-shirt. They’re there,” he points at the corner of the bed. “You can head back to your apartment after breakfast.”
I nod. Shit, is Matt a morning person? I almost feel a little less devastated by the fact that this might be the only time I’m in his home this early. The keyword being ‘almost’.
He starts to leave, and I get a tiny glimpse of that ass before he turns again. I snap my eyes up.
He smiles, knowing. Ah, well, no shame in appreciating a work of art.
“There’s a spare toothbrush under the sink,” he winks.
Wow, does the guy read minds or something?
I take my time in the bathroom, getting myself up and ready to face the temptation that is Mathew Hale.
We have so much work to do. I can’t let my mind wander off. Not today.
Matt’s T-shirt falls midway down my thighs, and his sweats slip down my waist even with the drawstrings tightly tied. I knot them a couple of times and send a little prayer to the universe that they’ll hold.
When I finally make it to the living room, Matt is completely focused on a pan on the stove, his brows furrowed. There! I missed that frown. At least when it’s not about anything serious.
Still no shirt in sight.
“C’mon, dude! You’re a firefighter. Why aren’t you wearing a shirt in the kitchen?” So, those words just left my mouth. I miss the silent, sleepy Oliver from fifteen minutes ago.
Matt looks up. The frown disappears, but the dimples make a grand entrance. He takes me in slowly, his eyes dragging over me. “You worried about my safety, Sunshine?” he drawls, his hand still swirling the spatula over the pan.
I blush at the endearment despite his teasing tone. I walk into the kitchen, and his eyes follow, hands still at work.
“Not you, just the abs you’ve clearly spent years in making,” I needle.
When I’m finally close enough to see what he’s got on the stove, he turns. I feel the countertop against my hips before his lips descend on mine and take up my entire focus.
This one is nothing like the kiss in bed. No, this kiss is a reminder of everything that happened last night. A message. A claim.
His lips move over mine, demanding. I surrender immediately, opening wide. His tongue plunders inside, and I taste coffee and faint toothpaste. But that could be me.
I cup his cheek, feeling his stubble against my hand. I move the other down to his nipple.
He moans in approval. His hands move possessively over me until one sneaks in under the T-shirt.
“Fuck, you look sexy in my clothes,” he groans against my lips.
I wrap my arms around his neck. He lifts me onto the counter, spreading my thighs wide to slot in.
The smell of something burning permeates the air, and my eyes snap open. The pan is smoking. I pull back with a loud groan.
He doesn’t let it deter him. He kisses down my jaw, and my eyes start to droop. No wait!
“Matt, the stove,” I say, but it comes out as an embarrassing moan.
“It’s okay, baby. I can make another later,” he says against my neck. His tongue rubs against my collarbone.
“Mmm hmmm. No… fuck… the stove.” I wrap my legs around his hips.
“Yes, fuck it.” He sucks on the sensitive flesh below my ear.
I groan.
Focus, Oliver! The smoke.
I pull back, out of reach of his eager mouth.
“What— Oh, fuck!” He turns and switches the stove off. “You, sir, are distracting as fuck,” he says, his eyes smiling.
I’m breathing so loud that it’s the only sound in the house. I slide off the counter, mostly to hide my embarrassing erection.
“It’s all your fault,” I point out. “What were you making anyway?” I look at the brown sludge in the pan.
“Scrambled eggs,” he says, scratching his neck.
I hip check him away from the stove. I throw the burnt eggs and soak the pan in the sink. I find a second pan and get started on breakfast.
When I have eggs on the stove, Matt comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. “Is there anything you do that isn’t insanely sexy?” he whispers against my neck.
“See, you’re the distraction here,” I try to shake him off…not very hard.
He tightens his grip, continuing to move his lips over me. He inhales.
Fuck, that’s hot. And the man thinks my actions are sexy?
I try my best to focus on the pan while his lips softly caress my skin. When he moves to the back of my neck, I almost drop the spatula. He hums against me, acknowledging my reaction.
Okay, this needs to stop. “Matt,” I try for a stern voice, but it comes out as something between a whine and a moan.
“Alright, alright, make your precious breakfast,” he says, dropping a final kiss on my neck before standing beside me. He folds his hands over his chest as if he needs extra measures to comply. At least, he’s still smiling.
Once I’m done, we have breakfast on his couch. We talk about random things, like work and people in the building. He tries to ask me about what happened yesterday, but I quickly change the topic.
The thing is, now that I’ve decided to leave the entire thing behind, my mind is awfully reluctant to open the chapter again.
It’s so weird because until yesterday, Dalton took up most of my mental space. And now I don’t even want to give it a single thought. It might be the shock and fear from yesterday talking, but I just can’t think about it right now. Not when I feel so sated, happy, and safe here with Matt.
“I got you a gift,” Matt says hesitantly, taking our dishes to the sink.
“Me too!” I say excitedly. I thought a lot about what to get him. I didn’t want it to be anything serious or remotely commitment-y. I think he’ll like what I settled on. And not in a ‘what do you think we’re doing here?' way, which is what’s important.
He smiles. “Okay, let’s exchange before we start preparing for the party,” he suggests.
“Yes, I’ll go grab it and change while I’m there,” I laugh, awkwardly motioning at the clothes hanging on my body.
Matt looks me over in one slow, consuming sweep that makes my skin heat everywhere. “Or you can just wear this until people are due to arrive. Or even after that,” he says, his voice throaty.
“Yeah, not unless we want to serve the guests ramen.”
He laughs sheepishly.
After a cold shower to clear my head, I return to his apartment with the gift. Matt must’ve had the same idea because his hair is wet when he opens the door.
We sit on his couch again, not touching. Because priorities.
He hands me a neatly wrapped package that is clearly a book. I internally sigh in relief. Not a serious gift then. I open it up carefully, keeping in mind how nicely he’s wrapped it.
I gasp when I see the cover. An old copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking by Julia Child.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!!
“It’s a signed copy I hunted down at this old bookstore…” Matt looks nervous. “You don’t like it!” His voice turns disappointed.
“No! Fuck, I love it,” I tell him sincerely. My eyes sting. I’m touched, really so touched. But also, I got him a gag gift, so…
“I know you love to cook, but I didn’t want to, like, insinuate that that’s your entire personality, but this was so good.”
I GOT HIM A GAG GIFT! “Hey, it’s about time to cook, isn’t it?” I say, standing up.
Matt laughs. “C’mon, I’ll love anything you got me.” He drags me back down and slides me closer to him effortlessly.
I look at the pitiful box, hurriedly packed, currently sitting on his coffee table. His heat does nothing to stop the embarrassment from creeping up.
Matt takes the box and unwraps it with the care it doesn’t deserve. He removes the lid, and his eyes go wide. He takes out the black T-shirt with a blue silhouette of a wolf and ‘Mr. Big Bad Wolf’ written on it. His mouth opens several times, but no words come out.
Fuck, he said he likes my show one time, and I get him all the merch I can. Actually, he didn’t even say he liked it! “There’s also a mug and a cap. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know we were doing serious gifts,” I start to blabber.
Matt has gone completely still.
“I know you don’t like the show. I just thought it would be funny,” I finish awkwardly. It’s clearly not funny. Not a single laugh is being had.
Matt blinks. “The show?” he asks, confused.
“My show?” Why did that come out as a question?
“Your show? Fuck, your show,” he nods aggressively, smiling now, but his eyes are still wide.
What just happened?
He folds the T-shirt neatly back in the box and tackles me to the couch. “I love it. So much,” he says against my lips, proceeding to devour all my confusion.