10. Sal
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Sal
I woke to warmth.
Not just the ordinary warmth of sheets and blankets and a good mattress. Something else entirely. Soft and curved and very definitely not supposed to be pressed against me like this.
My eyes opened.
Camellia.
She was tangled in my sheets, her hair spread across my pillow like dark silk, her body curved against mine in a way that made my breath catch.
Her back was pressed to my chest. Her ass was nestled against my hips.
One of my arms was wrapped around her waist, my hand splayed across her stomach like it belonged there.
Where the fuck was the pillow wall?
I looked around. The carefully constructed barrier she’d built last night was demolished. Pillows scattered across the bed, knocked aside at some point in the night, completely useless against whatever unconscious force had drawn us together.
So much for precautions.
I was hard.
Not just morning wood hard. Achingly, desperately, painfully hard. My cock was pressed against her ass, straining against my sweatpants, and every time she breathed, every tiny shift of her body, sent sparks shooting down my spine.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss.
The kitchen. The way she’d tasted. The sound she’d made when I’d lifted her onto the table. The feel of her legs wrapped around me, her fingers in my hair, her mouth hot and hungry against mine.
I’d dreamed about it. Vivid, detailed dreams that had me waking up harder than I’d ever been in my life.
She moved against me.
I bit off a curse.
It could have been innocent. A shift in her sleep, unconscious, meaningless. But the way she moved... a slow roll of her hips, pressing her ass more firmly against my cock... that didn’t feel innocent.
That felt deliberate.
I held still. Waited. Tried to figure out if she was awake or just torturing me in her sleep.
She moved again.
A groan escaped me before I could stop it. My hand tightened on her hip, fingers digging in, holding her still before she killed me.
Her breathing stuttered.
Awake then.
I leaned close. Let my lips brush her ear.
“You should stop.” My voice came out rough. Wrecked. “Otherwise we won’t be getting up from this bed any time soon, fiore.”
I pressed a kiss to her neck. Felt the shiver run through her body.
A small whimper escaped her throat. The sound went straight to my cock, making it twitch against her.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her voice was thick with sleep and want. “I’m just lying here.”
Okay.
Fine.
If she wanted to pretend, I could pretend.
I slipped out of bed before I did something we’d both regret. Or not regret. Probably not regret. But definitely something that would complicate an already complicated situation.
The bathroom was cold. Good. I needed cold. I splashed water on my face, brushed my teeth, tried to will my erection away through sheer force of will.
It didn’t work.
The kitchen. I’d go to the kitchen. Make coffee. Clear my head. Stop thinking about the way she’d felt pressed against me, soft and warm and...
I stopped in the doorway.
Her panties were on the floor.
Black lace. The ones I’d started to pull down last night before she’d told me to stop. They must have fallen from the bed at some point, or maybe she’d kicked them off in her sleep, but there they were. Just lying there on the hardwood. A fucking invitation.
I almost went insane.
Before I could think, I was bending down. Picking them up. The lace was soft in my fingers, delicate, still carrying a hint of warmth.
I brought them to my face.
Her scent hit me square in the gut, the smell of her pussy soaked into the lace, and I nearly lost my fucking mind. I breathed her in, groaned, felt my cock throb painfully against my sweatpants.
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck.
My hand moved without permission. Pressed against the front of my pants, palming myself through the fabric. The friction was nowhere near enough but it was something, relief for the desperate ache that had been building since I’d woken up with her in my arms.
I closed my eyes.
Pictured her on her knees in front of me. Those dark eyes looking up through her lashes. Her lips parted, waiting. Her mouth wrapped around my cock, taking me deep, swallowing everything I gave her while she moaned around me.
My hand moved faster. Fisted my cock through the fabric.
Pictured her bent over the kitchen table. The same table where I’d kissed her last night. Her hands braced on the wood, knuckles white, her back arched as I thrust into her from behind. The sound she’d make when I filled her completely.
“Fuck.” The word escaped through clenched teeth. I was so hard it hurt.
Pictured her riding me. Straddling my hips, her head thrown back in pleasure. Her breasts bouncing with every movement. Her pussy clenched tight around me as she took what she wanted, used me, made herself come on my cock while I watched.
I was going to come.
In the middle of my kitchen. With her panties pressed to my face. A fucking teenager who couldn’t control himself.
I couldn’t bring myself to care.
The orgasm hit hard and fast. My whole body seized, my hips jerking forward into my fist, cum spilling hot and wet into my briefs. I bit down on the lace to muffle my groan, tasting her, breathing her in, coming harder than I had in years.
When it was over, I leaned against the counter and tried to remember how to breathe.
Shit. Fuck.
The kitchen doors swung open.
Julian. Hendry. Both of them walking in like they owned the place, stopping short when they saw me standing there.
With her panties in my hand.
I shoved them into my pocket. Too late. Their eyes had already tracked the movement. Already seen exactly what I’d been holding.
“Boss.” Julian’s voice was strangled. Like he was trying very hard not to laugh and failing miserably. “Are those...”
“Shut up.”
“They looked like...”
“I said shut up.”
“Because if those are what I think they are...”
“Julian.” My voice dropped into dangerous territory. “Do you want to keep your tongue?”
He held up his hands, still grinning. “Shutting up. Completely silent. Not saying a word about the panties in your pocket.”
“What panties?” Hendry’s eyes were bright with amusement. “I don’t see any panties. Do you see any panties, Julian?”
“Not a single panty in sight.” Julian was practically vibrating with the effort of containing his laughter. “Just our boss, standing alone in the kitchen, definitely not smelling women’s underwear.”
“Both of you.” I pointed at the door. “Out.”
“We just got here.”
“Out.”
“But we were going to make breakfast.”
“I’m making breakfast.” I heard myself say it before I’d thought it through, before I could question what I was doing or why.
Silence.
Both of them stared at me like I’d just announced I was joining the circus.
“You’re...” Julian blinked. “Making breakfast?”
“Yes.”
“You. The dreaded Salvatore. Making breakfast.”
“Is there a problem with that?”
“No. No problem. Just...” He exchanged a look with Hendry. “You don’t cook, boss. You have people who cook for you.”
“Today I’m cooking.”
“Why?”
Because I wanted to.
Because she was still upstairs, warm and sleepy in my bed, and the thought of having someone else make her breakfast felt wrong. Like letting someone else take care of something that was mine.
“Get out.” It was easier than explaining. “Both of you. Now.”
They didn’t move. Instead, they leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching me with identical expressions of barely suppressed glee.
“What are you making?” Hendry asked.
“None of your business.”
“Eggs?” Julian guessed. “Toast? Maybe some fancy French thing you learned from that chef you hired last year?”
“I’m going to start breaking fingers if you don’t leave.”
“He’s making her breakfast.” Hendry said it slow, a revelation dawning across his face. “The boss is cooking breakfast for the girl.”
“I’m aware.” Julian was grinning so wide it had to hurt. “This is unprecedented. Historic. We should document this moment.”
“I will end you both.”
“He’s got it bad.” Hendry shook his head, still grinning. “Did he cut the toast on the diagonal? Tell me he cut the toast on the diagonal.”
“There’s a flower on the tray,” Julian stage-whispered. “A flower. From the garden. Boss, did you pick her a flower?”
“Out.” I grabbed a spatula from the drawer and brandished it at them. “Now. Before I use this to remove your tongues.”
They went. Finally. Still exchanging looks. Still barely containing their amusement. But they went, the kitchen doors swinging shut behind them, leaving me alone with the lingering scent of her panties in my pocket and the rapidly cooling evidence of my complete lack of self-control.
I cooked.
Eggs. Scrambled soft, the way she’d made them for herself two days ago when she thought no one was watching. Coffee with cream and two sugars, because I’d paid attention. Because I always paid attention to everything she did. Toast, cut on the diagonal, because I’d seen her do it that way.
I didn’t know what I was doing.
Why I was standing in my kitchen at seven in the morning, making breakfast for a woman I’d known less than two weeks. Why the thought of her eating something I’d made with my own hands made something warm spread through my chest.
I just knew I wanted to do it.
I loaded everything onto a tray. The good china. A small vase with a flower from the garden, which felt stupid the moment I added it but I couldn’t bring myself to take it off. A cloth napkin folded into a precise rectangle.
Like I was trying to impress her.
Like I cared what she thought.
Fuck.
I picked up the tray and headed for the stairs.
The bedroom door was slightly open. I nudged it with my shoulder, balancing the tray carefully, already rehearsing what I’d say. Something casual. Something that didn’t make it obvious I’d just jerked off to her panties and then made her breakfast, lovesick idiot that I was.
I froze.
She wasn’t sleeping.
She wasn’t getting dressed.