Chapter Fourteen Summer
Chapter Fourteen
Summer
Sweat trickles down my neck, waking me from my slumber.
I’m hot. Sure, it’s summertime, but this is the Pacific Northwest. Even when it’s hot, it’s never this hot.
No, this is something else. Like an inferno, flames lick up the side of my body. This is—
The memories of last night slam into me, and I spring up in bed, looking to my right.
Ezra.
He’s on his stomach, his arms stretched out under his pillow, one leg kicked up. The sheet barely covers his naked ass as he takes deep, steady breaths. He’s even frowning in his sleep, and it’s almost unfair how absurdly hot that is.
I have the urge to lift the sheet and get a look at him in the morning light, but I refrain.
Holy shit! I slept with Ezra!
Not even just once either. The second time came a few hours ago when I woke up to his hand between my legs, fingers pumping into me. I was shocked by how wet I was when he pulled me onto his lap, where I rode him until we were both completely spent.
I don’t even remember falling back asleep, but clearly we did.
I glance at the clock on the bedside table, and I can hardly believe it when I see it’s nearly eleven.
I can’t remember the last time I slept so late or so damn peacefully.
It must be his big, comfy bed. Or maybe it was the orgasms. Or perhaps it was just sleeping next to someone for the first time in .
. . shit, I can’t actually remember the last time I did.
I roam my gaze over my bedmate once more, and I wonder what he’s dreaming about that has him so grumpy even in his sleep. He carries too much on his shoulders.
I slip from the bed as quietly as I can, grabbing the first piece of clothing I can find and throwing it on before stopping in the bathroom. I do my business, then find some toothpaste and give my teeth a quick brush with my finger.
Ezra’s still in the same position when I’m finished, so I sneak out in search of my phone.
I’m a grown adult and don’t need to check in with my father about anything, but I also know he’s a bit of a worrywart.
He can claim it’s the law enforcement man in him, but I think that’s just part of being a parent.
Besides, I want to make sure he’s okay. Aside from me working, it’ll be the first time we’ve spent an evening apart since I came back to Washington, and I admit that I worry about him more now than I did before his heart incident.
I find the device on the kitchen counter, unsurprised that it’s completely dead.
“Shit,” I mutter, looking around for a charger.
I locate one stashed away in what looks to be Ezra’s “junk drawer,” a term I use very loosely for him, considering there’s an organizer in it and everything seems to have a place.
While waiting for my phone to boot back up, I make my way to the fridge. I think I saw some orange juice in there last night, and it sounds too good to pass up at the moment.
“Oh, great. You’re one of those people.”
I whirl around, orange juice sloshing from the container and down my chin at the intrusion.
Ezra is leaning against the wall, one leg crossed over the other, in nothing but his joggers from last night, and they are slung low. And I mean low. So damn low that I can very clearly make out the V that points straight down.
It’s hot. He’s hot.
“Pardon?”
He nods toward the juice in my hand. “You drink straight from the carton.”
“Oh shit. I did, didn’t I?” I replace the cap, then slide it back into the fridge. “My bad.”
He grins, and it looks so . . . easy. It’s almost disarming. I’m not used to him smiling. I’m used to the frowny Grump Ass version of him.
But this . . . this I could get used to. I could like this too much.
“It’s fine,” he says, pushing off the wall and padding into the kitchen until he’s standing next to me. He opens the fridge and retrieves the carton I just put away. He twists off the cap and takes a large swig before saying, “I do it too.”
Something tugs low in my belly, and even though I’ve had three incredible orgasms in the last twelve hours, every part of me could go for another, and I still don’t think it would be enough.
The thought is terrifying because it has to be enough. This can’t happen again. I am technically his employee for the time being. It goes against so many rules, and the last thing I want is to lose this kitchen because I can’t seem to keep my pants on around him.
This was a onetime thing only.
“Sleep okay?” he asks, still grinning. Still disarming me, and it makes me wonder . . . Does this really have to be the last time?
My cheeks heat because I can just hear the insinuation in his voice. Sleep okay? sounds more like Get fucked okay? The answer to both is the same.
“Uh, yeah. Has anyone ever told you that your bed is absurdly comfy?”
“Considering I’ve never had anyone else in my bed before, no.”
He puts the carton away and closes the fridge, then turns to me like he didn’t just announce that so casually. As if it’s not completely loaded with so many things that my brain can hardly process right now.
Ezra brought me to his house. Ezra took me into his bed. Ezra fucked me until I could barely keep my eyes open.
I want to ask him why me, but that’s likely the beginning of a whole different conversation, one I’m not quite sure we’re ready for.
“So,” he starts, taking a step toward me, and I find myself holding my breath. Why? I don’t know. But I seem to do a lot of things that I don’t understand when it comes to Ezra, like sleeping with my employer, for starters. “Breakfast?”
“You have nothing here, remember?”
“I have cereal and milk.”
I lift a brow. “Really?”
“Yeah? Why do you sound surprised by that?”
“I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t really peg you as a cereal kind of guy. I can’t imagine you sitting on the couch with a bowl of Cheerios, watching TV or anything.”
“That’s because it’s not Cheerios, it’s Froot Loops, and I would never eat it on the couch. I’d eat in bed with the TV on.”
It’s safe to say I was a bit preoccupied when Ezra carried me into his bedroom last night, so I didn’t notice the television he has in there until this morning.
It surprised me, mostly because I just can’t picture Ezra sitting down to scroll Netflix or something. He seems like he’s always too busy for that.
“I don’t sleep much, remember? I need something other than work to keep me occupied in the middle of the night,” he explains as if he can tell I’m trying to sort that out in my mind.
I nod. “That makes sense. Though I’m still shocked you keep sugary cereal here. You strike me as a guy who opts for the healthier stuff.”
“Cereal is where I draw the line, and I might have a bit of a sweet tooth.”
You taste like vanilla cupcakes, Sunny.
Uh, yeah. I remember.
I clear my throat, shoving away the memories of him tasting me last night. “Cereal in bed it is, though you really should hit up a grocery store every now and then. Learn to cook, even if it’s just the basics.”
“Are you going to teach me?”
He’s not even trying to be flirty. It’s a genuine question, and my instant reaction is to say yes, because what kind of chef wouldn’t want someone else to fall in love with cooking?
But then I remember how we’re not supposed to be doing this—whatever this is—which means we definitely aren’t supposed to be making plans together.
“We’ll circle back to that,” he says at my pause, moving toward the pantry. He opens the door and looks back at me over his shoulder. “Now, do you want Froot Loops, Lucky Charms, or Cinnamon Toast Crunch?”
Five minutes later, we’re back in his bedroom, under the same sheets we were tangled in last night, each of us holding a bowl of too-sugary cereal, the TV playing quiet reruns of The Office in the background.
I know I should probably check my phone and get hold of my dad, but I’m too content right now. I’ll do it later. He’s a big boy and can take care of himself for one night.
“God, I forgot how good this was,” I say as I shovel a bite of Cinnamon Toast Crunch into my mouth. “I don’t remember the last time I had it.”
“It’s my second favorite. I’m still a Froot Loops kid through and through. My uncle was about as skilled in the kitchen as I am, so I ate a lot of it growing up.”
“Is he how you got into hockey?”
“Sort of?” Ezra shrugs. “I mostly got into it because it was something to do. My uncle worked hard to keep a roof over our heads, so I was often alone. There was an after-school program at my local rink, so I’d go there and watch the kids skate.
I was mesmerized by it. I’d never watched hockey or anything until then, but it looked fun as hell.
One day a coach saw me and asked if I wanted to give it a go.
I didn’t have equipment, but they found me some, pushed me out onto the ice.
I didn’t love the skates at first—way too unreliable—but once I actually gave it a real shot, I was hooked.
” He grins. “They would have to practically drag me from the rink every night because I never wanted to leave. It was like being in a different world. I was no longer just the kid who lost his parents. I was someone else. I was . . .”
“Free?” I finish for him, unable to contain my own smile. He looks so happy talking about the game, and though I know he doesn’t want my sympathy, it still makes me feel so bad that he lost it.
“Yeah, that. How’d you know?”
“Because you get this look on your face when you talk about hockey, and it’s the same look you have when you’re speeding down the road. It’s . . . peaceful. And kind of beautiful. Terrifying when you’re doing a hundred, but still beautiful.”
He laughs. “I wasn’t doing a hundred.”
I raise a brow at him.
“It was 105, thank you very much.”
“Yes, because that’s so much better.” I roll my eyes.
“Hey, it’s the closest thing I can get to an adrenaline rush these days, thanks to my hip. I’ll take the win where I can get it.”
“Is that why you drive a manual? I can’t imagine that’s easy, given your restricted range.”
“Yes, that’s why. And it can be uncomfortable, but it makes me feel useful again.”