Chapter 11
Pancakes And Firefighters
~ROSEMARIE~
Iwake to thick arms wrapped around my waist, and for a blissful, drowsy moment, I forget where I am.
The firm warmth behind me is solid—immovable, almost—like being spooned by a particularly affectionate wall of muscle.
There's weight to his embrace, a heaviness that should feel confining but instead feels like an anchor.
Like safety. His breath is warm against the back of my neck, slow and steady with sleep, ruffling the fine hairs at my nape with each exhale.
I don't want to leave this bed.
The thought surfaces unbidden, startling in its intensity.
I'm not usually a cuddler—not usually someone who lingers in the morning after, who indulges in the soft domesticity of waking up in someone else's arms. But right now, cocooned in warmth and the thick blanket of Tank's scent, I want nothing more than to burrow deeper into his embrace and stay here forever.
Except this isn't your bed, Rosemarie. This isn't your home. This isn't your life.
Reality trickles back in slowly, like water seeping through cracks.
This is Tank's bed. Tank's bedroom. Tank's ridiculously comfortable California king with the dark gray sheets that probably cost more than my entire furniture budget and the mountain of pillows that I somehow ended up using as barricades during the more. .. athletic portions of our evening.
Heat floods my cheeks as memories from last night resurface in vivid, Technicolor detail.
Oh God.
Oh God, the things we did.
A fling of pure lust and madness—that's the only way to describe it.
We'd barely made it to the bedroom before clothes started coming off, a trail of designer fabric and expensive shoes leading from the kitchen island to this very spot.
He'd been everything I demanded and more: patient when I needed patience, rough when I needed rough, responsive to every shift in my body like he was reading a map he'd already memorized.
And then the shower. God, the shower. I'd thought we were done—thought my legs couldn't possibly support another round—but he picked me up and proceeded to prove me spectacularly wrong against the tile wall.
The memory of water cascading over us, steam rising, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise. ..
And then we came back to bed and did it again.
I've never had so many lustful rounds with an Alpha.
Never. I have what most would consider a high sex drive—the kind that used to frustrate Damien and his packmates because they couldn't keep up, couldn't match my energy, couldn't satisfy the hunger that seemed to live beneath my skin.
I got used to feeling unfulfilled. Got used to finishing myself off after they'd rolled over and fallen asleep.
Got used to toys being the only thing that could get me off enough to feel mentally sane.
But Tank... Tank matched me. Round for round. Demand for demand. Every time I pushed, he pushed back. Every time I thought surely he's done, he surprised me with more stamina, more creativity, more of that devastating focus that made me feel like the only thing in the universe that mattered.
To have a man who can truly compete? Unreal. Absolutely unreal.
Something sad settles in my chest—a weight that wasn't there a moment ago. Because this is temporary. This was one night. One spontaneous, incredible, life-altering night that will end the moment I walk out his front door.
I'll go home to my cluttered apartment and my boxes and my complicated life.
He'll go back to whatever his normal looks like—the fancy house, the giant dog, the mysterious job that requires him to bodyguard strangers at Valentine's mixers.
We'll be strangers once more. Ships passing in the night, if ships were capable of having multiple explosive orgasms and also really intense feelings about each other's scent profiles.
Well, that's just how life works, Rosemarie. One perfect night doesn't equal a future. One connection doesn't guarantee a sequel.
The pragmatic voice in my head sounds suspiciously like my mother, which is enough motivation to actually start moving. I shift carefully in Tank's arms, testing his grip. His hold tightens briefly—instinctive, even in sleep—before loosening enough for me to slip free.
I manage to extract myself without waking him, which feels like a minor miracle given how light he sleeps.
He'd jerked awake twice during the night at sounds I hadn't even registered—the house settling, probably, or Sasha moving around in another room.
Military training, I'd assumed. The kind of hypervigilance that becomes second nature after enough time in dangerous situations.
He mutters something incomprehensible as I pull away—Russian, maybe, or just sleep-garbled nonsense—and turns over, reaching blindly for the warmth I've left behind.
His hand finds the pillow I'd been using for the first part of the night, and he pulls it against his chest, his body relaxing as he settles around it.
Oh. Oh, that's... that's actually really cute.
He's cuddling my pillow. This massive, intimidating Alpha who could probably kill a man with his pinky finger is spooning a pillow like it's a teddy bear, his face buried in the spot where my head had been, breathing in what must be the lingering traces of my scent.
A smirk tugs at my lips. I should probably find this less endearing than I do.
I reach for the light blanket draped over the foot of the bed—one of those soft throw blankets that rich people have everywhere for decorative purposes—and carefully lay it over his lower half.
He runs hot; I figured that out within the first five minutes of sharing a bed with him.
The man is basically a furnace. But better to wake up too warm than too cold, in my opinion, and I'd rather he not freeze his impressive assets off after I've abandoned him.
Look at you, being considerate. How domestic.
The bathroom is just as immaculate as I remember from our shower adventures—all marble surfaces and chrome fixtures and one of those rain showerheads that makes you feel like you're bathing in a tropical waterfall.
The lighting is warm, flattering, the kind that makes everyone look like they have good skin even when they definitely spent the night doing things that should have left them looking haggard.
I'm reaching for the faucet when I notice the extra set of toiletries laid out on the counter.
A toothbrush—still in its packaging, one of those fancy bamboo ones. A small tube of toothpaste. A brand-new face wash that looks suspiciously like it might be from the same line I use at home. A hairbrush. Even a little packet of makeup wipes.
He woke up at some point and put these here. For me. Without being asked.
The realization makes something warm bloom in my chest—something dangerously close to affection.
He could have just let me figure it out on my own.
Could have left me to rummage through his cabinets looking for supplies.
Instead, he'd anticipated my needs and addressed them before I even knew I had them.
That's... thoughtful. Really thoughtful. The kind of consideration that suggests he's done this before—or at least, that he's the type of person who thinks about other people's comfort as a default setting rather than an afterthought.
I brush my teeth with more force than necessary, trying to scrub away the emotions that keep bubbling up uninvited. This was a one-night stand. A fling. A temporary Valentine's Day swing, as I'd called it. I'm not supposed to be catching feelings for a man I met approximately twelve hours ago.
And yet here you are, melting over a toothbrush.
I rinse, spit, and study my reflection in the mirror.
I look... good, actually. Better than I expected.
There's a glow to my skin that wasn't there yesterday—the kind of satisfied radiance that comes from being thoroughly, comprehensively handled.
My hair is a disaster, but in a sexy, just-rolled-out-of-bed way rather than a concerning, possibly-rabid-animal way.
I think about getting dressed and frown.
The dress from last night is crumpled on the floor wherever it landed during our first round.
I should find it but then I immediately dismiss the idea of putting it back on.
The lace is probably wrinkled beyond repair, there's definitely a small tear near the hem from when things got.
.. enthusiastic, and the entire garment smells like a combination of my perfume, Tank's cologne, and activities that don't need to be broadcast to the world.
Plus, my underwear is clearly done for. The scent-protecting thongs gave their life in service last night, and I will honor their sacrifice by never speaking of their demise again.
I need something else to wear. Something that doesn't scream "walk of shame" or "I had vigorous sex in a stranger's bathroom."
The bedroom offers options. Tank's closet is a marvel of organization—shirts hung by color, pants folded with military precision, drawers labeled with the kind of system that suggests either OCD or former military service.
Probably both. I bypass the dress shirts and slacks in favor of the more casual section, where a collection of soft cotton t-shirts is folded in neat stacks.
I pause to appreciate the sheer variety. Band tees from concerts that look like they were actually attended rather than bought ironically. Plain basics in every color of the neutral spectrum. A few with small logos that probably cost more than my car payment despite their understated appearance.
The closet smells like him. That devastating smoked leather and saffron combination has soaked into every fiber of fabric in here. It's overwhelming in the best way—like being wrapped in a blanket made of his scent.
I grab one at random—black, simple, probably designer despite its understated appearance—and pull it over my head.