Chapter 32

THIRTY-TWO

I blink my eyes open the next morning.

It takes me a few seconds to orient myself, and once I do, there’s a moment when I’m not sure how I got here.

Sutton’s bedroom.

Sutton’s bed.

I look to the side.

No Sutton.

But there are sounds coming from the kitchen.

I hesitate for a moment before I roll myself off the bed.

I don’t know what to expect. Truly. Zero idea. But I walk out there anyway. My bare feet pad on the hardwood floor when I make my way to the living room. Sutton is standing in front of the stove with his back to me.

The counters… Well, the counters are covered with food. Pastries, mostly, by the looks of it.

I blink.

“Uh…” I say slowly. “Just how hungry are you?”

He turns around and looks at the counters. The look of concentration slowly morphs into something akin to puzzlement, and his brow furrows.

“I wasn’t sure what you wanted for breakfast,” he finally says.

I step closer.

“So you figured you’d make one of… everything?”

I take in the cinnamon rolls and waffles and scones and muffins and eggs and bacon and pancakes and toast and French toast and?—

I take my eyes off the food and look at him.

“How long have you been up?”

His gaze moves over the counters once more, and he winces.

“A few hours?”

“Okay,” I say, and then, “Okay. So you stress cook, apparently. See? I didn’t know that.”

He blows out a breath and drags his fingers through his hair.

“We can probably freeze some of it,” he mutters.

“And eat the rest. Breakfast for lunch and dinner. I don’t mind.”

He nods wordlessly. Instead of stressed, he now looks unsure. Tense and unsure.

I go around the end of the counter and walk straight into him.

He automatically wraps his arms around me, and I press a firm kiss to his lips.

“Hi,” I say with a grin.

The tension leaves his body, increment by increment, until he chuckles softly.

“Hi,” he says.

I reach behind him and take a slice of French toast, tear off a piece and pop it into my mouth. Then I tear off another piece and hold it out for him. He leans forward and bites into it.

He laughs.

And I smile.

And then he’s kissing me. He tastes like French toast. Sugar and cinnamon. Sweet. It suits him.

The sweetness is a bit of an illusion, though. His hand slides down my chest and stomach. His fingers wriggle beneath the waistband of my boxer shorts. In they go, aimed toward their target with single-minded determination. He takes my cock in his hand, and it twitches. Stings with the kind of pleasurable pain that promises something good.

“Can I?” he mutters against my lips.

Fucked if I even know what he’s asking, but I nod eagerly, lips sliding up and down against his.

He laughs again.

“Fast and hard,” I tell him, already panting. “It’s been so long.”

In response, he squeezes and strokes. His thumb slides over the tip and spreads the wetness around before his palm slides down my length again.

My head falls back, and I slouch against the counter, fingers gripping the edge.

He pulls my underwear down. It gets stuck somewhere around my ankles. He pushes my legs open farther. Fingertips slide over the insides of my thighs, and the kitchen fills with my pants and my moans.

He lifts his hand and spits into his palm, and then his hand is back around my cock, slippery and warm and tight.

I push my hips forward.

“You’re so fucking hot like this,” Sutton murmurs, kissing the shell of my ear.

Shivers travel down my spine.

“I’m going to come,” I gasp.

“Please.” His voice is filled with gravel, while his grip tightens, and his hand moves faster.

“Oh, God,” spills from my lips.

Sutton’s mouth comes down on mine, and he swallows my gasps of pleasure while he expertly twists me into a tight knot and then unravels me.

My cock jerks and wet spurts of heat land on my stomach and his wrist.

I slump back, knees weak, golden sparks dancing in front of my eyes in the early morning sunshine.

And Sutton keeps kissing me.