Chapter Thirteen
SHAY
THE HOUSE IS quiet.
Too quiet. The kind that hums in your ears.
“I don’t think we thought this through.” Cash whispers in my ear.
His warm breath skims my skin, sending goosebumps racing down my arms. It’s almost enough to make me turn around and push him back into the bedroom.
“We don’t know the location of the Dry Hump Champ.”
I laugh and slap a hand over my mouth to trap the sound.
Now I can’t retreat to my room, not that we’ve gotten far. We’re still standing in my doorway with the door open behind us.
One step. That’s all we’ve made it. Pathetic.
But I like a good challenge, and I like Cash’s reaction even more. This big man afraid of a tiny little dog. It’s adorable.
“You laugh, but it wasn’t Lord Pelvis pounding against your leg.”
More laughter shakes through me.
He clears his throat. “I don’t think it was very funny.”
“I’m sure they’re tucked away with their masters for the night.”
“And if they’re not?”
I tilt my head to look at him. “Then I’m jumping on your back when they attack.”
I dash away before he can reply. The floorboards betray me with a long, hollow creak, and I freeze mid-step only a few feet down the hallway.
Heartbeat thundering.
Listening.
Waiting.
His chuckle travels to me, and I hear the door click shut behind him. Each step of his is loud and bold. No stealth whatsoever.
“You’re going to wake up everyone,” I hiss at him when he presses against my backside.
His chest is solid heat at my back. His hands slide to my hips.
It feels good.
He feels good.
My body melts before my brain can protest.
“We can turn back now.” His hand slides around my front and cups my breast. “There are cinnamon buns on your nightstand we could nibble on.” He nibbles on the side of my throat. “But this tastes much better.”
I press my lips together to keep from giggling or moaning—or both. My knees actually wobble—traitor knees.
“We’re doing this,” I say.
His mouth presses hot against my ear. “This is how people die in horror movies.”
“Those people don’t have snacks made by you.” He nibbles my earlobe, and my spine curves into him automatically, like I’m magnetized.
Too easy. Too tempting.
His lips press mine, and we’re locked in another kiss. It’s been like this since we towel-dried. Kissing.
Touching.
Licking.
The affection hasn’t stopped, and I don’t want it to. Except right now, we’re on a mission.
I lean back. “Snacks.”
He groans, but releases me. “And possible death by humping.”
I laugh. “Not a bad way to go.”
“Depends on the situation. If it’s my Captain Consentless, I’d rather not.”
“I’ll protect you.” I give a peck on his lips.
“You said you’re using me to protect yourself.”
“I am. I just wanted you to feel safe.”
He lets out a huff of a laugh. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
“Apparently, you’re the lucky one because Sir Thrustington has never tried to mount my leg.”
He groans, dragging a hand down his face, and I take the opportunity to slip out of his arms and continue down the hallway.
Every step sounds amplified. The soft brush of fabric against our feet. Our breathing.
The house holds every noise like it’s listening.
Halfway, a floorboard gives a traitorous little creak.
I stop so fast that he collides with me. Solid chest to my back. A soft oof. His hands catch my waist before I tip forward.
What is with this man and constantly bumping into me?
His palms span my waist, warm and steady, and thumbs flex like he doesn’t want to let go. My stomach flips hard.
I bite down on a laugh and press my face into his shoulder until the moment passes. He smells like soap, him, and something warm I want to bury myself in.
“See?” I smile at him. “We’re fine.”
“So far.” He kisses my nose. “All this for whipped cream.”
“Whipped cream?”
He grins. “You said you wanted something sweet, right?”
“Yes, but I meant like a cookie or something.”
“Cookies aren’t nearly as fun as whipped cream.”
My pulse spikes. “Fun?”
“Mhm.” He watches me, fear gone, replaced with that slow, wicked look that makes my knees soft. “And you’re gonna lick it off the beater for me.”
My thoughts scatter. The words don’t land all at once. Just heat, breath, and the way my body reacts before my mind can catch up.
“I guess it’s not like we’re doing anything wrong,” I whisper, voice thin and breathless.
His chuckle is dark. “Oh, baby.” His lips skim my cheek. “We’re about to do all kinds of wrong.”
Heat floods me fast and hot.
For half a second, I picture him pinning me to the wall, and my grip tightens.
Even if the wall facing the backyard is made of glass windows and sheer curtains that offer no privacy.
But there’s no pinning.
He slides his hand into mine, taking the lead, our fingers tangling tight. He ignores all the sounds we make until we’re safely in the kitchen.
A dim light glows, but we’re all too exposed until Cash nudges a pocket door out of the wall. It glides with a low scrape, the wood whispering against wood. I didn’t even realize there were sliding doors tucked in the walls.
I grip the edge of the counter as another soft scrape echoes way too loud in the quiet.
Why does everything sound so painfully loud?
He grins at me as he struts to the butler's pantry, dividing the nook from the dining room, and slides that door shut, too. Click. Sealed in. Hidden.
He still isn’t wearing a shirt, and my gaze snags on bare skin and stays there. Broad shoulders. Defined chest. That stupid line of muscle disappearing into his waistband. Not that I’m complaining. At all.
“Why are you lookin’ at me like that?”
I don’t answer right away. I let my eyes linger. Then I shrug.
“I like the view.”
His mouth quirks. One blink, there’s space between us, and the next he’s on me. He pulls me hard against him. His hands are firm on my back, and his mouth finds mine without hesitation.
I laugh, and he catches the sound.
“You’re going to get us busted,” he breathes against my mouth.
A giggle slips out. Before he can catch it again, I duck under his arm.
His hands miss me by inches.
“Hey—” he grumbles in that low, sexy voice of his.
The sound slides down my spine like a warm finger.
I stop at the fridge and glance back just long enough to see him watching me. He leans the side of his hip on the counter and crosses his arms over his torso.
The man looks illegal—all muscle and smug confidence.
The fridge door opens with a soft hum. Cool air spills out against my flushed skin. I lean into it for a second, letting it kiss my overheated cheeks. I’d need to climb right inside to really cool down.
I study the shelves, but it takes me a second to focus.
“Bingo.” I pull out a can of whipped cream.
I grab strawberries too, because I’m not an animal. I hold them up triumphantly.
“No.” His reply is solid. “That”—he steps closer—“is not whipped cream.”
“It comes out in little decorative swirls.” I shake the can. “Easily lickable off beaters.” My gaze drifts south to the bulge in his pants.
With a low groan, he takes the can from me and tucks it back into the fridge over my shoulder. His chest brushes me when he reaches past.
He glances down at me. “We’re making it from scratch.”
“From scratch?”
He nods.
“At midnight?”
He chuckles. “As long as you don’t bend over in those short-shorts, we’ll be good.”
I glance down at my cotton, wide-legged pajama shorts. “These old things?” I pinch the side and let the material flutter back.
He growls. “Yes. Those old things are fucking sexy.”
I laugh.
He doesn’t.
The way he’s looking at me says if we don’t start mixing something soon, it’s not gonna be ingredients.
I grab a mixing bowl off the counter. “What’s the first ingredient?”
I knock a spoon off the counter, and it clatters to the floor.
The sound explodes through the quiet kitchen like a gunshot
I freeze, straining my ears to listen past the clattering. Footsteps. Paws. Anything.
He doesn’t flinch. He reaches out and stills the spoon with his bare foot.
“You’re not helping,” he said mildly.
“I’m very helpful.” I hold the bowl against my chest like a shield.
“You somehow managed to add too much flour to the cinnamon bun filling, and the mixture was pasty instead of gooey.”
“I followed your instructions.”
“You rolled each one so tight, the centres popped and baked unevenly.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Are you implying I’m a bad baker?”
“Am I wrong?”
I shake my head, smiling. “I’m also bad at cooking.”
“I’m not surprised.” He takes the bowl and sets it on the counter.
“I’ve burned rice.”
He makes a sound between a chuckle and a snort.
“Twice,” I add.
“Alright. You. Here.” His arms slide under my arms, and he lifts me.
I let out a squeak of surprise as he sets me squarely on the counter. My legs automatically spread to accommodate him between them, and my shorts rise high.
He presses his palms flat on the counter on either side of me. “Now be a good girl and sit here.”
I close my legs around him and squeeze him closer. “Or you get up here with me.”
He leans in and captures my mouth with his. It’s slow and sweet—the opposite of every hungry kiss we’ve shared.
There’s no rush this time.
No frantic hands.
No messy need to swallow each other's breath.
His bottom lip brushes mine again. Slow enough, I feel the shape of it. He lingers at the corner before sliding fully against my mouth again.
My hands find his bare shoulder. Warm skin. Solid muscle under my palms. I don’t pull him closer. Just hold his muscles.
He tilts his head the smallest amount, and the kiss deepens.
Still gentle.
Still soft.
A slow give-and-take, like we’re learning from each other instead of devouring. He noses along my cheek between kisses. His lashes brush my skin. He breathes me in slowly, like he’s memorizing me.
It feels like being chosen—being seen.
When he finally breaks the kiss, he doesn’t pull away completely. His mouth lingers near mine. His breath is warm, and our noses bump.
His thumb strokes my jaw, featherlight.
My voice barely works when I whisper, “How are you so good at that?”