twentythree
Leo's POV
She thinks she's subtle.
She walks into the kitchen slow, soft, still sleepy...
wearing my shirt.
My. Shirt.
Nothing underneath.
Bare legs.
Bare shoulders.
Hair messy and gorgeous.
Skin glowing.
Eyes warm and still hazy from last night.
I grip the edge of the stove so hard I almost snap it.
She doesn't even say anything-just stands there, blinking at me like she has no idea she looks like every fantasy I've ever had.
Then she walks closer.
Each step kills me.
"Morning," I manage.
The way she says "hi"...
The way she pushes a curl behind her ear...
The way she bites her lip-
I look away before I do something insane.
I focus on the skillet.
The eggs.
The pan.
Anything except her thighs swinging as she walks.
Then she sits on the counter.
On the counter.
Bare legs dangling.
Skin glowing.
Shirt riding up the tiniest bit.
God.
Control is a myth.
I don't even remember crossing the kitchen, but suddenly I'm in front of her-between her knees-close enough to feel her breath on my face.
"Careful," I tease. "Don't fall."
Truth is?
If she falls, I'm catching her.
Always.
Her lips part just slightly.
She has no idea what she does to me.
I tuck a curl behind her ear.
Her eyes flutter shut.
Her breath trembles.
I'm gone.
I lean in and kiss her.
Soft.
Then not-so-soft.
Her hands slide up my chest and I swear my knees buckle.
Her lips taste warm and sweet and like last night and like everything I've been starving for.
She presses closer-
and with every inch she gives me, I lose another piece of self-control.
When her thighs squeeze around my hips, I nearly lose it.
I pull back before I ruin breakfast and my entire life.
"Last night wasn't enough," I murmur before I can stop myself.
She shivers.
My hand tightens on her thigh; I can't help it.
She looks up at me-
Eyes soft.
Mouth swollen.
Breathing uneven.
"I still want more," I say, voice rough.
"More of you."
Her grip tightens on my shoulders.
"Then take it," she whispers.
I literally have to close my eyes.
Because if I keep looking at her wearing my shirt, sitting pretty on my counter, telling me to take what I want-
I'm done.
I breathe into her neck, steadying myself.
"Aaliyah," I whisper, "I want to. Believe me."
My thumb strokes her thigh, slow, reverent.
"But if I start something now, we're not eating."
She flushes-bright, beautiful.
I kiss her jaw.
Her shoulder.
My shirt slipping down her arm like it was made to be peeled off her.
She hides her face in my neck.
I smile-
a real one-
because she's shy and bold at the same time.
Deadly combination.
"Sit still," I say softly. "Let me finish cooking."
She nods, dazed, breath shaky.
I turn back to the stove, shirtless, trying to breathe like a normal person.
I fail.
Every time she shifts on that counter, I feel it in my spine.
Every time she hums softly at the smell of food, I feel it in my chest.
Every time she swings her legs, my gaze drifts-
God.
She doesn't even try to hide the way she's watching me cook.
Her eyes trace my back, my shoulders, my hands.
I flip the chilaquiles onto a plate-
And hear her whisper under her breath:
"...damn."
I pretend I didn't hear.
I absolutely heard.
"Food's done," I say.
"Okay," she breathes.
Just that one word almost puts me on my knees.
I bring the plates over, step between her knees again, brushing a hand along the back of her thigh as I lift her down from the counter.
She gasps and grabs my shoulders.
I steady her.
We're close again.
Too close.
Perfectly close.
She looks up at me and whispers:
"You're staring."
I let out a slow breath.
"I've been staring since you walked out of my room."
She blushes.
I lift her chin with my fingers.
"And if you look at me like that one more time..."
I lean in, lips brushing hers, barely touching-
"...I'm taking you back to bed."
Her breath stutters.
She whispers, "Who said I'd stop you?"
I groan-quiet, low, pained-and kiss her again.
Deep.
Slow.
Hungry.
Then I force myself to pull away-
Barely.
"Eat," I whisper, voice wrecked.
"Before I forget breakfast exists."
She laughs softly.
I swear I fall harder.