Chapter 11 Warm Syrup, Cold Nerves
Chapter eleven
Warm Syrup, Cold Nerves
Teyonah
The next morning, I woke up thinking. . .
I should’ve gone back downstairs and fucked him.
The taste of his mouth still haunted me and had my body humming for him.
But after reading the bedtime stories to the kids, my bedroom door clicked and the quiet wrapped around me tight—fear, confusion, guilt braided into one hard knot. I went to sleep sexually frustrated and battling so many thoughts.
Girl. . .just get ready for the day.
As I washed and dressed, I told myself that I would go down to his basement apartment first thing, knock like a grown woman, talk about boundaries and all the reasons this was a bad idea.
Instead. . .when I got downstairs, I realized Dominic had plans of his own.
I stepped into the kitchen and froze.
What is this? Everyone is already here.
Dom moved around the stove like a chef—pan tilted, wrist loose, flipping pancakes in clean, confident arcs.
Morning sun lit the room into soft rectangles.
Butter hissed.
Syrup warmed in a little pot.
Oliver sat at the table, tight curls wild, feet kicking the chair, trying to hold his fork like a grown-up and failing.
J sat beside him smiling and reading their comic.
There was a crystal vase brimming with bright pink roses, their perfume thick in the air like spilled silk.
What?
Oliver spotted me and raised his hands. “Surprise, Mommy! We got you again!”
“It’s the breakfast edition.” J grinned.
“I see.” I went and hugged both of them. “Thank you so much. You all are spoiling me.”
Once I gave them kisses on their cheeks, I turned to the true ringleader who had been making my life more a fairytale than a nightmare.
“Thank you, Dominic.”
“No problem. By the way, good morning.” He slid another perfect circle onto the stack and looked at me. His eyes caught mine—dark and bright at once—and for a heartbeat I thought he might smile.
But I gazed at him deeper and there it was, buried under the civility—lust and anger. He had wanted me back downstairs last night. I felt it as surely as heat off the burner.
Thank God, Dominic remained calm in front of the kids.
Meanwhile, Scott would have argued and cornered me with words until I cracked.
Dominic didn’t. He just made pancakes—perfect circles, one after the other—as if feeding me would make my day easier, as if he could build a bridge from batter and heat instead of noise.
That was his way, and it made me realize that even though Dominic was young, he was more of a man than Scott could ever be.
The guilt of not going back downstairs hit me harder than the smell of butter and sugar rising from the pan.
Shit.
I’d left him waiting, hadn’t gone back down after the story, had stayed upstairs convincing myself it was better, cleaner, safer. And now here he was, making breakfast like he’d make peace with his hands instead of his mouth.
My throat tightened. “I’m sorry about not. . .finishing our. . .conversation last night.”
He put his focus back on the pancakes. “We’ll talk about that later.”
I swallowed hard, went over to the stove, and busied myself with the syrup pot, pretending to stir it so no one could see my hands trembling. The words we’ll talk about that later echoed in my head like a drumbeat.
Later?
Alone with him?
In the basement, with no one to hear if I moaned too loud?
A shiver went through me.
Alone in a room with Dominic, I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep my clothes on, not with that big ass cock and the way he moaned for me last night.
I was more sinner than saint.
And he was too sexy, too patient, too damn good at drawing out the parts of me I tried to bury. Just looking at him now—shoulders flexing as he flipped pancakes, forearm muscles shifting under tan, the scent of butter and heat rising with his cologne and body heat—made me hot.
I left the syrup pot alone, fingers brushing the counter for balance as I sat down, pulse jumping at the accidental graze of my own skin.
So turned on, I had to press my thighs together beneath the table. Every laugh from the kids made me fear they’d see the heat flashing across my face.
Shit. I have to get my hormones under control.
J and Oliver started talking about what they were most excited to do at school today. I nodded and smiled, enjoying their joy but. . .it was hard not to think about Dominic.
In the middle of Oliver’s playful story, I shouldn’t have looked up at him again, but I turned my gaze that way.
Damn.
I took in Dominic’s muscular arms, the veins standing out as he tilted the pan. The way his long fingers pinched the handle, the clean motion of his wrist as he slid another pancake onto the plate.
Those hands could soothe or ruin.
That face—strong jaw, dark eyes, lips made for kissing pussy—looked carved out of a daydream I wasn’t supposed to have. I tried to focus on the kids’ chatter, but my pulse kept time with the sizzle of batter.
What was it about hot men cooking that made a woman’s ovaries spiral out of control?
It wasn’t just the sight.
It must have been the signal.
The subtext said. . .
Provider.
Protector.
Hands skilled enough to build or destroy.
Feed and pleasure.
Every flip of his wrist whispered competence, focus, care. Most women must have been wired to be turned on by someone who looked capable and calm under pressure.
I surely was.
“And Timothy thinks that Batman can beat Wolverine, but I don’t think so, Mommy.” Oliver licked at his fork. “I think Wolverine is the toughest guy of all, after Dom.”
Dominic chuckled. “No way. Wolverine could surely beat me up.”
J snickered. “But Dom could beat up Batman for sure.”
I dragged in a breath, willing my voice to stay steady.
I had promised myself I’d talk to him about boundaries, about last night, about all the reasons we couldn’t go down this path.
But sitting here with the smell of warm syrup, his muscles flexing in front of me, and the kids enjoying his presence.
. .I couldn’t even form a clear sentence.
For some reason, my thoughts slipped to Scott’s raggedy ass.
Mornings with him had been a war zone.
Stress.
Tension.
Dread as soon as the alarm went off.
Scott never lifted a finger. He’d sit slumped at the table with his coffee, scrolling the news on his phone, eyes glazed over while I scrambled to pack lunches, comb hair, iron clothes, herding everyone out the door.
Meanwhile, every small sound scraped at Scott’s nerves.
Oliver’s laughter?
Too loud.
J humming while reading?
Too distracting.
He would snap, bite out insults under his breath until they stung.
I would never forget the morning he nearly called J a sissy.
His mouth curled, the word poised at the edge, ugly and sharp, and I’d had to step between them before it landed.
That was the sort of father Scott had been—the kind that made a kid shrink into themself, the kind that taught children to tiptoe in their own home.
And what had Scott ever surprised me with?
Not a Mother’s Day dinner.
Not a surprise pancake breakfast on a busy Monday.
Scott had only surprised me with affairs. Women who didn’t have stretch marks, who didn’t come with bills and bedtime stories.
That was his version of a gift.
Now, here I was, in a kitchen where Dominic flipped pancakes and set out roses.
Roses.
A man I shouldn’t even want was making mornings easier instead of harder, while the man who’d once vowed to love me had only ever made them heavier.
The guilt and the heat braided tight inside me, twisting my chest, making it hard to breathe.
Oh man. This conversation later is going to be. . .
If this was how I reacted to Dominic at the stove, how the hell was I supposed to survive a private conversation with him later—no kids, no pancakes, just that body and that look?
My heart hammered.
I kept my eyes on the roses in the vase instead of his muscular arms, but even then I could feel him moving behind me, the sound of the spatula scraping the pan, the weight of his stare on my skin.
“Alright J and Oliver. Check.” Dominic turned off the stove, raised his spatula in the air, and stepped back from the stove.
They rushed from their seats, went over to the stove, and giggled.
I smiled. “What’s going on?”
“Quality control,” Dom looked my way and winked. “We’re verifying that Mickey Mouse pancakes are still scientifically proven to cure Mondays.”
“They are,” Oliver chuckled. “Dom made ears. I want one of those.”
J returned to the table. “He warmed the syrup too, Mommy. Just like you do.”
“I’m impressed.”
Dom brought me over a plate of pancakes. “I hope you’re hungry.”
“I am.”
“Good.” He walked off.
Butter melted into a little lake on the first pancake.
Next, he set a bowl of berries between the kids like he’d known exactly where to put it.
Somewhere in between our all eating together and chatting about more super hero matches, I noticed that Dominic had put up a Post-it on the fridge with reminders about school project dates and field trip sign-ups. It was all there in his neat block letters with checkboxes beside times.
Wow. I forgot about those things with everything going on.
J tapped my arm. “Are you okay, Mommy?”
“I’m perfect.” I looked at my kids and then put my view on Dominic who sat across from me eating his pancakes. “You all are so sweet and thoughtful. I don’t know what I would do without you three.”
“You hear that?” Dominic winked at the kids. “We’re officially sweet.”
“Like syrup,” Oliver confirmed, licking his lip. “Sticky sweet.”
Dominic set down his fork. “Alright, you two. Wanna hear a doctor joke?”
Oliver’s eyes lit up. “Yeah!”
J grinned. “It’s going to be so corny.”
I frowned at J. “Be nice. I’m sure the joke will be good.”
J chuckled. “It won’t, Mommy. Trust me.”
“Well I think it will be awesome.” I pointed to Dominic. “Let’s hear it.”
Dominic leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Why was the doctor always calm?”
The kids blinked at him.
I shrugged.
“Because he had a lot of patients.”
Oliver laughed.
I chuckled.