The morning started with the smell of burnt toast and Theo cursing in three languages.
I padded into the kitchen barefoot, wearing nothing but his black dress shirt from last night (still unbuttoned, still carrying the scent of sex and cedar). My thighs were sticky, my breasts tender from his mouth, and every step reminded me he had come inside me twice before dawn (once slow and worshipful, once hard and possessive when I whispered breed me against his lips).
He stood at the stove, scowling at a smoking pan like it had personally insulted his bloodline.
"I can cook toast," I offered, voice husky from screaming his name hours earlier.
He turned, gray eyes raking over me (hair wild, lips swollen, his marks blooming across my throat and chest). His scowl melted into something hungry.
"You're not allowed near the stove," he growled, stepping close enough that I felt the heat radiating off his bare chest. "You're barely allowed to walk. You're still full of me."
