Chapter 11 Lincoln
LINCOLN
Why isn’t he awake yet?
My beast was impatient for Bronson to open his eyes and maybe watch me shift. He wanted to make up for lost time, and there was little point in me explaining that wasn’t possible.
But I was also sending Bronson messages to wake up because like my beast, I enjoyed his laughter, his adorable smile where one side of his mouth quirked up, along with his husky voice.
My panther tugged at my insides, telling me to shake our mate awake. He was disturbed by the tiny rumbles and whistles coming from chest and mouth.
It’s known as snoring and humans often do it, especially men.
I ran my mind over the events of yesterday which had ended with Bronson choosing me and my beast. It was the most significant event of my life and couldn’t be outmatched even by the moment we met.
But my reminiscing was interrupted by my stomach growling. I suspected my beast had something to do with that in his efforts to wake up our mate. It did kinda resemble his snarling. But he claimed no part in it.
Bronson lifted his head and glanced around. “What was that? Not a gas explosion, I’m guessing, as we’re all in one piece.”
I patted my belly. “It’s just me. I’m starving.”
He flipped the bed covers down and offered me his cock. But giggled and covered himself up while I was dithering as to whether I should suck him off or make breakfast.
“What time is it?”
“Almost nine.” It was the weekend, and I guessed he didn’t have any commitments either work or personal.
“It’s Sunday, right?” He flopped onto his pillow and closed his eyes. “Or did I misplace a few days?” He didn’t wait for a response before adding, “Why are you so awake?”
I explained that my shifter metabolism didn’t allow me to doze away the day, and besides, I was hungry.
Bronson pulled the covers over his head. “Early mornings on a weekend should be illegal. I believe they were conceived to torture night owls.”
“Well, I need to eat before I start gnawing the furniture.”
He yelped. “Please don’t eat my table, because it’s new. Well, newish.”
I promised him furniture wasn’t on the menu and told him to stay where he was and I’d rummage in the kitchen for food. He asked if my beast took down a deer and ate, would that satiate my hunger.
“Nope, it doesn’t work like that.”
He told me the fridge contained food, and I pretended to be shocked, saying I’d expected to find his laundry in there. I got an eye roll in response.
But as I was opening the kitchen cupboards and staring into the fridge, Bronson padded over the floor and hugged me from behind.
“I missed you.”
Awww, that’s so sweet. Our mate loves us.
I grabbed eggs, bacon, sausages, tomatoes, and mushrooms, plus a tin of baked beans and a loaf of bread. Bronson stared at it and asked if I’d invited a football team for breakfast.
“Protein is an excellent way to start the day, and breakfast is the most important meal.” I repeated my mantra, “Eat breakfast like a king, lunch like a prince, and dinner like a pauper.”
He raised a brow before starting the coffee. “Milk is protein, and I add that to my cereal. Besides, I’ve never met a king, so I have no idea what they eat. Gold-encrusted toast, perhaps?
I made a face because I’d never met a cereal that wasn’t dry and dusty and reminded me of the bottom of a bird cage. My panther recoiled at the mention of cages, and I apologized.
Bronson manoeuvred around me to get to the fridge. His kitchen was more cramped than mine, and when we discussed where we should live, I hoped he agreed my place was more spacious. Plus, the proximity to the woods was necessary for my beast.
“Sorry, it’s a little small.” He brushed over my butt as he squeezed behind me. Hmmm, maybe a tiny kitchen was more intimate than a larger space.
He opened the cutlery drawer and pulled out a squished cereal bar. “Oh look, my breakfast in a packet.”
That was gross, and when I checked the expiration date, it was too old, and I tossed it in the garbage. My mate put his hands on his hips and growled, and my hands shook as I cracked the eggs. He was adorable, and I kissed his brow and instructed him to sit.
“I could get used to this.”
That could refer to a lot of things, such as waking up next to one another or me cooking for him or me taking charge and not letting him eat crap in the morning. I didn’t care which it was, and he could huff and puff and pretend to snarl, but as long as we were together, life was good.
I bent over and rummaged through the utensils drawer searching for a spatula. When I finally found it, the handle had melted after being left against something hot.
“Oh yeah, I did that a while ago when I forgot to turn off the heat.”
Between the old food, the burnt handle, and last night's fire-alarm fiasco, I began to question my mate’s kitchen skills. Maybe I should do the cooking from now on, as I pictured the apartment burning to the ground.
Bronson’s nose twitched as the bacon sizzled. “Mmmm, that does smell good.” He leaned over the pan, trying to steal a bit, and I smacked his hand. It wasn’t crispy enough, and besides, he might burn his fingers.
“You’re a meanie.”
“And I’ll wear the title proudly, but no one eats bacon before it’s cooked, not in my kitchen.”
He saluted and returned to his coffee. But after opening all the cupboards, I couldn’t find a toaster, so he got up and pressed his crotch on my ass as he pushed past. I told him to go back and do it again because he needed to perfect the maneuver, and he giggled.
“You’re a good cook but a little messy,” Bronson observed.
What was that saying about not being able to make a cake without breaking eggs? I couldn’t recall, so I just shrugged. I’d clean up when I was done. But my mate shimmied past me yet again and wiped the oil spatter from the stove and grabbed the eggshells from the sink.
Dale described my cooking method as fighting with the food, but it worked for me, though I left a trail of chaos in my wake.
I flipped the bacon and asked my mate how he preferred his eggs. He was on his knees, wiping up bacon fat that had spurted out of the pan. I’d have liked him on his knees while I sat on the edge of the bed, my pants at my ankles, but we had all day and the rest of our lives.
I told him to sit while I dished up the food, making sure to give him about half of what I was going to eat. His eyes bulged, and he dunked a piece of toast in the baked beans.
“Mmmm, this is delicious.”
It took hardly any effort to warm up baked beans and make toast, and I urged him to eat more.
“I love how you threw breakfast together, but I’m a little disappointed you didn’t make pancakes.”
I leaped up and grabbed a bowl from the drying rack. “Sorry, I can make a batch now.”
He put a hand on my arm. “I was joking, being sarcastic.”
I returned to my seat, and our knees bumped under the small kitchen table. We talked about what we’d do for the rest of the day. I didn’t bring up living arrangements because we were together and that was enough for now.
“Ugh, washing up.” My mate studied the pile of dishes in the sink. “That’s the problem with cooking, there’s a lot of work afterward.” He pointed to the garbage bin. “That’s one of the reasons why a cereal bar is so efficient. There’s no clean-up.”
I told him as I’d made the mess, I’d wash up, but he insisted that as I’d cooked, he’d deal with the aftermath. “Besides, washing dishes is kind of meditative.”
“Really?” I hated scrubbing off dried egg and putting leftovers away. “I have a better idea.” I leaned over and licked off bacon grease from his lips. “We could forget this carnage and do it later.” I trailed my foot up his leg.
Bronson sniggered. “Oh yeah, and what would we do instead?”
“This.” I scooped him up, and he squealed as I raced into the bedroom and dumped him on the mattress.
“Are we taking a long snooze after our huge breakfast?” He shimmed his PJ pants off and tossed them on the floor.
I was still hungry, and I eyed him greedily, wondering which part of him I’d nibble, suck, lick, or kiss first.
“You’re a bad influence.” He beckoned me closer.
I agreed and fell onto the bed, making sure my face was level with his cock.
“I can stop if you want to go clean the kitchen.”
“Don’t you dare.”