he’d say no. He’d enjoy that scene very much. He opened his bedroom door and a slight hint of floral and spice in the air told him that his sexy housemate had recently passed this way. He paused, inhaling Bron’s scent, helplessly recalling how he’d felt driving deep inside her body. He could have had her in his bed again last night if he hadn’t acted like a pig.
Was he really going to make her move out today as he’d planned? No. He didn’t want the most exciting sex he ever remembered to end so soon. And he didn’t want to think he’d hurt a very nice woman’s feelings because his own were so battered. He tapped his fingertips reflexively against his computer case as he tried to figure out what the rules were in this kind of situation. Then he realized the rules were whatever the hell he decided they would be. He had to quit thinking of rules, good behavior, politeness. Rule-breaker, maverick, lone wolf. These were his new ideals.
If he wanted to sleep with Bron again, he would. Simple as that. He’d show a little more class about it than he had last night, is all. And with that he strode downstairs and nearly fell over his feet. The smell of coffee had his taste buds weeping for joy, as did the sight of Bron in a strappy sundress that showed off her tanned, muscular legs, arms and shoulders, and hinted at all the other parts—which he knew from personal experience were just as gorgeous. He’d been callow and stupid last night to think he could bed her when they’d both arrived home unencumbered. He felt a twinge of embarrassment, but amazingly, when she turned his way, there was no trace of antagonism.
“Morning,” she said with a friendly smile. “I wasn’t sure if you liked eggs or whatever on a work day.”
“I, uh . . .” he cleared his throat. “Just toast and coffee.”
She tsked. “Not very healthy. You should eat fruit and protein at breakfast.” She’d managed to make a godawful mess of the kitchen in a short time, but he kind of liked the disorder. It was so unusual in his life.
“What can I do to help?” The dishes, probably. He felt ridiculous being waited on by this woman who also had to go to work today. It wasn’t like cooking for him was her job. Again that sunshine smile flashed. “Handy ’round the place, are you?”
Her hair was still damp on the ends and he had to fight an impulse to grab a handful and, holding her in place, give her a proper good morning. But of course that wouldn’t be— Saint Mark was dead. Badass Mark was in control, and Badass Mark did whatever the hell he felt like. He grabbed a handful of hair, scrunching the damp strands into a wet rope and, taking advantage of her squeak of surprise, kissed her open mouth. She’d obviously been snacking on the fruit she’d arranged on the plate, for she tasted like every exotic flavor he knew and some he didn’t recognize. Papaya, mango, starfruit, and under it all the elusive salt-sweet scent of the ocean. For a second she hesitated, then kissed him back with all the enthusiasm he could handle.
“I missed you when I woke up,” he mumbled against her lips as his hands moved from her hair down her shoulders to rest briefly on the small, tight waist.
“You were a dickhead last night,” she replied, nibbling his lips.
He smiled a little. “I was indeed a dickhead,” he agreed, giving the word her pronunciation, which made her chuckle softly. “I’m sorry.”
“I missed you last night, too,” she admitted.
With a glance over her shoulder to the kitchen clock, he saw it was still early enough for what he had in mind. “I’ll show you a California breakfast tradition.”
“If it’s anything to do with waffles, I’m not interested.”
He slid the zip down the back of her dress and slipped the straps to her waist. “No waffles. I promise.”
Saint Mark resurfaced only briefly, but long enough to rescue her dress from probable disaster, by the simple expedient of letting go of the
Was he really going to make her move out today as he’d planned? No. He didn’t want the most exciting sex he ever remembered to end so soon. And he didn’t want to think he’d hurt a very nice woman’s feelings because his own were so battered. He tapped his fingertips reflexively against his computer case as he tried to figure out what the rules were in this kind of situation. Then he realized the rules were whatever the hell he decided they would be. He had to quit thinking of rules, good behavior, politeness. Rule-breaker, maverick, lone wolf. These were his new ideals.
If he wanted to sleep with Bron again, he would. Simple as that. He’d show a little more class about it than he had last night, is all. And with that he strode downstairs and nearly fell over his feet. The smell of coffee had his taste buds weeping for joy, as did the sight of Bron in a strappy sundress that showed off her tanned, muscular legs, arms and shoulders, and hinted at all the other parts—which he knew from personal experience were just as gorgeous. He’d been callow and stupid last night to think he could bed her when they’d both arrived home unencumbered. He felt a twinge of embarrassment, but amazingly, when she turned his way, there was no trace of antagonism.
“Morning,” she said with a friendly smile. “I wasn’t sure if you liked eggs or whatever on a work day.”
“I, uh . . .” he cleared his throat. “Just toast and coffee.”
She tsked. “Not very healthy. You should eat fruit and protein at breakfast.” She’d managed to make a godawful mess of the kitchen in a short time, but he kind of liked the disorder. It was so unusual in his life.
“What can I do to help?” The dishes, probably. He felt ridiculous being waited on by this woman who also had to go to work today. It wasn’t like cooking for him was her job. Again that sunshine smile flashed. “Handy ’round the place, are you?”
Her hair was still damp on the ends and he had to fight an impulse to grab a handful and, holding her in place, give her a proper good morning. But of course that wouldn’t be— Saint Mark was dead. Badass Mark was in control, and Badass Mark did whatever the hell he felt like. He grabbed a handful of hair, scrunching the damp strands into a wet rope and, taking advantage of her squeak of surprise, kissed her open mouth. She’d obviously been snacking on the fruit she’d arranged on the plate, for she tasted like every exotic flavor he knew and some he didn’t recognize. Papaya, mango, starfruit, and under it all the elusive salt-sweet scent of the ocean. For a second she hesitated, then kissed him back with all the enthusiasm he could handle.
“I missed you when I woke up,” he mumbled against her lips as his hands moved from her hair down her shoulders to rest briefly on the small, tight waist.
“You were a dickhead last night,” she replied, nibbling his lips.
He smiled a little. “I was indeed a dickhead,” he agreed, giving the word her pronunciation, which made her chuckle softly. “I’m sorry.”
“I missed you last night, too,” she admitted.
With a glance over her shoulder to the kitchen clock, he saw it was still early enough for what he had in mind. “I’ll show you a California breakfast tradition.”
“If it’s anything to do with waffles, I’m not interested.”
He slid the zip down the back of her dress and slipped the straps to her waist. “No waffles. I promise.”
Saint Mark resurfaced only briefly, but long enough to rescue her dress from probable disaster, by the simple expedient of letting go of the
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