Chapter 20
Hilliard
When Hilliard woke the next morning, it was with a sense of satiety he had never experienced before.
He allowed himself a couple of minutes to soak it in, watching the long hand on his alarm clock tick out an endless rhythm as memories of the previous night came back to him like the gossamer edges of sweet dreams; little flashes of bliss that seemed unimaginable.
But it was real.
He was exhausted in a way he wasn’t sure how to put into words, but he knew it was from the exquisite heat of his magic burning in his heart as Montgomery Kincaid had given him everything he’d wanted and more.
As carefully as he could, he rolled onto his back. Monty was in a similar position, one arm over his head on the pillow. His other hand was in the middle of his bare chest, rising and falling as he breathed.
Tucked in close to his side on top of the comforter was Henrietta.
When she saw Hilliard looking, her tail began to wag guiltily. She knew she wasn’t allowed on the bed. Without lifting her head, she made a soft grrruff at him, as if to say, I’m sorry, I just couldn’t help myself. Hilliard decided she could get away with it just this once.
He took a shower that steamed up the bathroom in record time, warming his aches and washing away the traces left behind from the rest of their evening. Dressed in his most comfortable high-waisted lounge pants and an ivory polo shirt, he stepped into the hallway with his hands on his hips.
There was a trail of discarded clothes from the bedroom all the way to the sofa. He bent to pick up the piece closest to him.
Hilliard had managed to get about half of the buttons undone on Monty’s shirt as they stumbled toward the bedroom in slow motion, their backs bumping against the wall, both of them smiling so hard that their kisses were nothing more than quick pecks and lips caught between teeth.
It was here that Monty had pulled his shirt over his head, turning it inside out in the process.
With a private grin, Hilliard folded the shirt over his arm and continued collecting their abandoned clothes and shoes.
Next, he picked up their unfinished glasses of wine and brought them to the kitchen. Quiet music filled the air when he turned the dial on the radio to his favorite Sunday morning station. Once he had the coffee percolating, he started on the bacon.
Was it possible for one man to truly have it all? In that moment, Hilliard felt that it was.
Monty was an experienced lover, sure of himself in all the ways Hilliard imagined he would be.
At the same time, he was attentive from start to finish, never rushing—as badly as they both might’ve wanted to.
Hilliard’s face warmed as he recalled begging for exactly that at least once.
And through it all, Monty had made him forget his worries about what might happen come sunrise.
Hilliard refused to let them trickle in now.
Instead, he focused on flipping the bacon, checking the toast, and cracking the eggs.
He added a dash of milk that had been delivered that morning and a handful of shredded cheese to the bowl, whisking away.
They were just starting to scramble in the hot skillet when he felt an arm wrap around his middle, followed by a tender press of lips to the side of his neck.
Heat washed through him at the touch and he grinned as a soft hum escaped him.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Morning.” Monty must’ve taken a shower, too. His hair was damp and he smelled like soap. “Coffee?”
“Pour yourself a cup while I finish these eggs. They’re almost ready.”
“I’ll pour two.”
“Thanks, doll.”
Aside from the kiss, their morning started like most did. Hilliard served breakfast at the table. They ate while Monty slowly woke up and Hilliard read the news headlines to him. After the first cup of coffee, Monty was alert enough to share a thought on some of the more important ones.
“Oh, here’s a good one. Apparently there was a flock of South American condors spotted up near Bakersfield,” Hilliard said with interest. “They’re usually only found in the Andes. That’s an awfully long way to fly.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Hilliard let the corner of the paper fold toward him and looked at Monty over it.
“I don’t know much about birds,” he admitted, reaching for the coffee Monty had poured for him. He liked Taffy, the Powells’ pink cockatoo, but that was hardly enough to carry a conversation over.
“I mean about last night.”
“Oh.” Hilliard set his cup down. “Yes, I suppose we should.” He set the paper aside, too, and sat up more in his chair.
“You didn’t push my magic away.”
The bluntness of Monty’s statement forced Hilliard’s brows up in mild surprise.
“I didn’t realize you could feel it so strongly.”
“Why didn’t you push it away?”
Hilliard knew his answer before Monty finished asking the question.
“Because I didn’t want to.”
“What changed?”
So many things, Hilliard wanted to say. The way he’d been listening to Ezra’s instructions.
Not just following them, but embracing them.
The way he’d been making an effort to end his quarreling with Cal.
But most of all, the way he’d shown Hilliard that he was interested in more than just falling into bed together.
As far as he knew, Monty had never taken anyone else to brunch before.
It was more than what Monty had done, though. Somewhere between the first rich bite of his gelato and sitting beside a truly content man during the movie premiere, he decided that perhaps it was time to allow himself to indulge in the things he wanted for once, at least when it came to his heart.
“I decided to stop letting my fear of losing you keep me from having you.”
“You have me.” Monty’s hand covered his on the table. When Hilliard met his intense gaze, he gave a gentle but firm squeeze. “You have me, Hilliard.”
The magic in his heart simmered at the words.
“I know, sweetheart.”
Monty had said as much in the early hours of the morning. After they’d caught their breath, Monty was the one to let out a pitiful moan when Hilliard attempted to get up and wet a washcloth for them.
“Stay,” he’d said, hardly more than a whisper.
As Hilliard put his head back against the pillow, Monty had thrown an arm over his chest, tucking a knee between his thighs as he pressed himself along the side of Hilliard’s body.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Hilliard promised, sliding his hand along Monty’s forearm.
“Good,” Monty said before pressing a slow kiss to Hilliard’s jaw. “Me neither.”
It was all said in afterglow, of course, but Hilliard had a feeling that both of them meant what they’d said in a larger sense than sharing a bed for the night.
Monty returned to his breakfast, scooping up his last forkful of eggs. Hilliard drained his coffee cup and went to stand, but paused when he noticed the two copies of The Stargazer at the other end of the table.
“Everyone thinks we’re just friends.”
Monty’s answering laugh was high in the back of his throat.
“There was a time everyone thought I was secretly from Spain and doing a terrible job of covering up my accent. Two years ago, I had a twin brother. I’ve been listed as five-foot-seven and six-foot-one.
” He waved a dismissive hand at the magazines.
“If anyone reads a rag like that and takes every word for the truth, it’s their own damn fault. ”
Hilliard considered this for a moment.
“I suppose you’re right,” he said finally. “You are most certainly not six-foot-one.”
Monty’s jaw dropped, brows furrowed. “And how do you know that?”
“Because I am six-foot-one.”
Monty’s expression slid into something effortlessly naughty. He hummed in a deep, self-satisfied sort of way that nearly made Hilliard’s breath catch.
“No wonder I had such an easy time getting your legs over my shoulders last night.”
“Montgomery,” Hilliard scolded with an embarrassed grin. To help cover it, he wiped his mouth with his napkin and stood, picking up both of their plates. “Help me with these dishes.”
And Monty did.