Anya
I’m not entirely sure what time it was when I drifted back to sleep, only that I was warm everywhere — warm in that deep, bone-level way that came from more than blankets.
Warm because he held me, because he wanted me, because I fell asleep with Desmond’s arm heavy around my waist and his breath steady against my shoulder as if it had always belonged there.
I remember thinking, vaguely and hazily, that whatever this was between us had stopped being theoretical sometime long before last night.
When I woke again, the bed was empty.
For half a second, panic flared sharp and stupid in my chest — until I noticed the other things. The room was still warm. The sheets still smelled like him. And underneath it all, curling its way down the hallway like a promise, was the unmistakable smell of bacon.
I smiled into the pillow.
Sunlight filtered in through the windows, soft and snowy and blue-gray, the world outside hushed and suspended, like a quiet little peace between us, agreeing to give us the morning off.
I rolled onto my back, stretching lazily, then padded to the dresser and opened a drawer that clearly hadn’t been touched in a while.
The Yale sweatshirt was absurd. Thick, navy, unmistakably his, the sleeves were long enough to swallow my hands entirely.
I tugged it over my head anyway; the fabric brushing my thighs; the neckline slipping just enough to bare one shoulder.
I found a pair of socks next — wool, enormous, clearly purchased by someone who believed cold was a personal challenge — and shoved my feet into them, laughing quietly to myself as I stood.
I made my way down the hall like that, socked feet sliding slightly on the wood, hips swaying without thinking to some imaginary music only I could hear. I did a little spin for no one at all. A terrible, enthusiastic shimmy. It felt impossible not to be light.
The kitchen came into view — and so did Desmond.
He stood at the stove, barefoot, shirtless, wearing nothing but sleep pants slung low on his hips, one hand working a pan while the other held a mug.
Snow fell thick outside the window behind him, framing him like a piece of art.
He looked… domestic. Dangerous. The sight of him like this tugged at my heart.
He turned at the sound of my socks scuffing.
And stopped.
Actually stopped.
His eyes dragged over me slowly, openly, starting at my face and taking their time everywhere else, as if he was committing the image to memory for future emergencies. His mouth parted just a little, breath catching, and for a man who prided himself on composure, he looked utterly wrecked.
“Well,” he said finally, voice rough with appreciation. “That’s unfair.”
I grinned and padded closer, the sweatshirt swinging with each step. “Good morning to you too.”
“You’re wearing my sweatshirt,” he said, jaw hanging slack. “And my socks.”
“And about to eat your bacon,” I added, peering into the pan. “I assume.”
“You can have anything you want,” he said faintly. “I’m not sure I’ll ever recover from this.”
I laughed and slipped in behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist and pressing my cheek between his shoulder blades. He was warm and solid. He stilled instantly, then relaxed back into me as if he’d been waiting his entire life for this moment.
“You vanished,” I murmured.
“I was trying to be productive,” he said, tugging his hand down his face in exasperation. “I failed the moment you walked in.”
I hugged him tighter. He covered my hands with his, thumbs brushing over my fingers in a way that felt grounding and intimate all at once. After a moment, he leaned back just enough to glance down at me.
“You look…” He trailed off, searching. “You look like you belong here.”
My chest did something dangerous at that. I rocked up onto my toes and kissed his shoulder, soft and quick. “Careful, Dr. Vaughn. You might make me snowed-in permanently.”
His laugh rumbled through him, low and delighted. He turned then, finally, setting the mug aside so he could pull me fully into his space. His hands slid easily to my waist, thumbs brushing the hem of the sweatshirt as if he were resisting the urge to do more.
“Oh, don’t you worry, Volkov. I’ve been planning contingencies since you walked through that door,” he said.
“Just in case.” Outside, the snow kept falling.
Inside, wrapped in his clothes and his arms and the quiet certainty of the morning, it felt like the world had narrowed to exactly the right size.
“Come here,” he said, tugging me towards the center of his absurdly large kitchen.
Desmond slid his hands to my waist automatically, as if his body knew what to do before his brain caught up. We stood there, rocking gently back and forth in the middle of the kitchen, no music, no rush, just the quiet creak of the house and the soft hiss of snow outside.
“This is highly impractical,” I murmured as he rested his forehead against mine.
“Mmm,” he agreed. “But you’re doing great.”
We swayed. Slowly. Aimlessly. My cheek brushed his chest; his chin tipped to rest on the top of my head. His thumbs traced absent, grounding circles at my sides. It felt absurd and intimate and so achingly normal it made my throat tight.
Then there was a smell.
It was decidedly not bacon. Not anymore.
Desmond stiffened. “Oh, no.”
I pulled back just enough to see over his shoulder as a thin curl of smoke rose from the pan. The bacon had gone from sizzling to charcoal while we’d been busy being idiots. He groaned. “We burned it.”
I burst out laughing, the sound bright and uncontrollable. “You absolutely did.”
“I got distracted,” he said solemnly. “You distracted me.” He untangled our arms, rushing over to remove the pan from the heat. “But… since there’s no breakfast to worry about anymore.”
In a single motion, he lifted me from the ground and deposited me on the counter opposite the stovetop. An embarrassingly high squeal left my lips as he wormed his way between my legs.
His hands settled on my thighs, warm and steady, pushing the hem of his Yale sweatshirt up just enough to expose the bare skin beneath.
I hooked my ankles behind his back, the socks bunching up against his pajama pants as I drew him closer.
The kitchen still smelled of charred bacon, but it faded under the heat of his gaze, dark and playful, locking onto mine.
“You know,” I teased, my fingers tracing the line of his jaw, “distracted is one way to put it. Reckless might be another.”
He chuckled, low and rumbling, leaning in until his nose brushed mine.
“Reckless with you? Always worth it.” His lips captured mine then, softly at first, a gentle press that lingered like the slow sway we'd shared moments ago.
I sighed into it, my hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, pulling him deeper.
The kiss built slowly, his tongue teasing the seam of my lips until I parted them, inviting him in.
He tasted like morning coffee and lazy mornings, and I melted against him, the cool counter a sharp contrast to the warmth blooming between us.
One hand cupped the back of my neck, tilting my head just so, while the other squeezed my thigh, thumb circling in lazy patterns that sent little sparks racing up my spine.
I nipped at his bottom lip, earning a soft groan that vibrated through me. “Careful,” he murmured against my mouth, his breath hot and uneven. “Or we might burn the whole place down.”
“Is that a promise?” I whispered back, smiling into the next kiss, deeper now, our bodies pressing closer as the world narrowed to just this — just us, tangled and teasing in the smoky morning light.
His hips shifted forward, the thin fabric of his pajama pants doing little to hide the growing hardness of his cock pressing against my inner thigh.
I rocked against him instinctively, feeling the heat of him through the sweatshirt that barely covered me below.
My pussy clenched at the friction, a soft whimper escaping as his hand slid higher, fingers brushing the edge of my underwear, teasing without fully touching.
He broke the kiss just enough to trail his lips down my neck, sucking lightly at the pulse point there while his thumb grazed my clit in a slow, deliberate circle. “Fuck, you're already wet,” he breathed, voice rough with want, his free hand gripping my hip to pull me flush against his erection.
I gasped, arching into his touch, my socks slipping slightly as I tightened my legs around him. “All your fault,” I managed, nipping at his earlobe before capturing his mouth again, tongues tangling in a messy, heated rhythm that matched the grind of our bodies.
The rhythm of our kisses grew frantic for a moment, his fingers dipping just inside my slick entrance before pulling back, teasing me with the promise of more.
I ground against his hard cock, the fabric of his pants rough against my skin, aching with need as his thumb pressed firmer on my clit, circling with just enough pressure to make my breath hitch.
“God, you always feel so good,” he groaned into my mouth, his hips bucking forward in a slow thrust that had me moaning softly. His free hand roamed up under the sweatshirt, palming my breast, thumb flicking over my hardened nipple until I arched into him, chasing the sparks of pleasure.
But then, as suddenly as the heat had spiked, he eased back, his touches turning lighter, more playful.
He nipped at my lower lip one last time before pulling away just enough to meet my eyes, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.
His fingers stilled on my clit, tracing lazy patterns instead, keeping the warmth simmering without pushing further.
“We should probably salvage breakfast before the smoke alarm goes off again,” he murmured, voice husky but laced with that teasing lilt I loved. He didn't move away though, staying pressed close, his erection still firm against me as if reluctant to let the moment end.
I laughed breathlessly, my hands sliding down to rest on his shoulders, fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. “Or we could just order pizza and stay like this all day.” I wiggled my hips a little, earning a low chuckle from him, his hands settling on my waist to steady me.
“Tempting,” he admitted, leaning in for a soft, lingering kiss that was all sweetness now, no edge.
“But we are snowed in, honey. No one’s getting in, and you’re definitely not getting out.
” His eyes sparkled with mock seriousness, and I swatted his chest lightly, both of us dissolving into easy laughter as the morning light filtered through the window, chasing away the last wisps of smoke.