Page 348 of Steamy Ever After

When I enter the kitchen, both men turn at the same time. Drake holds a spatula and stands in front of the cast-iron stove. A skillet sizzles and pops as bacon crisps in its grease. Bert stands at the counter, a white and blue striped ceramic bowl cradled in the crook of his arm. He beats at the contents with a wire whisk.

“Good morning, sunshine.” Bert’s bright smile welcomes me yet again, making me feel at home. “Sleep well?”

“I did, thank you.”

Drake’s gaze rakes over my body, taking in every inch and lingers longer than is polite. Unlike Bert’s bright and cheery welcome, Drake’s attention is something else entirely.

The dark, sweltering heat simmering in his eyes speeds my heart and deepens my breaths. The loose-fitting faded pair of jeans fails to conceal his physique composed of tight cords and hard ridges of defined muscle.

His poor t-shirt stretches across broad shoulders, and I have no doubt it hides a rippling terrace of muscle underneath. The man exudes power. His threatening scowl does nothing to soften those hard edges. Too much pain laces that scowl, and I can’t help but want to ease some of the agony, which seems to be such an integral part of his makeup.

He’s well-built without being overly muscular, unlike the gym die-hards who flood the local gyms back in Redlands. I signed up a time or two, thinking the addition of a bit of gym time would help me lose the extra five pounds Scott always went on and on about. After my first visit, with powerlifters and bulky men amped up on protein powder and questionably legal substances, I never returned.

Drake’s muscular build appears to be the result of honest to goodness labor, working the land.

My gaze dips, following the narrowing of his waist to the V-cut indentations I know are hidden under the fabric. His pants outline just enough of a bulge to fire up my pulse again. No man has a right to look that good.

His raven-black hair, long on the top and short on the sides, flops over his eyes in a disheveled mess. As I stare, he rakes his fingers through the messy strands, pushing the hair out of his eyes. It immediately falls back, as rebellious and untamed as I imagine he must be.

I try to determine his age. He’s older than me, but how much older? From the lack of wrinkles on his face, I guess a year or two at most. Maybe three or five. But his piercing gaze wears authority with ease. It makes me wonder if he’s prior military.

Maybe the scar is the result of an injury obtained while on active duty? That could explain the maturity I sense. There’s nothing left of the youth he once was. Some tragedy stripped that innocence.

Everything about Drake screams, “stay away.” There’s a wildness to his features that can’t be denied. There’s also pain, terrible agony etched in the hardness of his features.

I’m staring, but I can’t look away. He regards me silently, allowing my intrusive gaze to get its fill, and he doesn’t flinch beneath my scrutiny. At least, not until I wonder about that scar.

Standing feet braced, shoulder-width apart, he’s intimidating, but the moment my focus shifts to the scar, he turns back to the stove.

Bert catches every nuance. His inquisitive gaze flickers between us, bouncing back and forth until our entirely silent exchange concludes with Drake giving me his back.

Which doesn’t help my predicament at all.

Now I’ve got nothing better to look at than the way Drake’s tight ass fills out those jeans. Everything about this mysterious man conjures the most decadent and indecent thoughts. There’s a ruthlessness about him, a carnal need vibrating in the tenseness of his tall, muscular form.

It’s volatile.

He’s dangerous, but damn, if that doesn’t make me want to take a walk on the wild side. Which screams trouble with a capital T.

Fortunately for me, I’m not the kind of girl who makes the first move. I’m far too timid for that. Now, my imagination, on the other hand, already has our bodies twisting and tangling, skin sliding against skin, and other parts of our bodies locked in an intimate embrace.

“How do you like your eggs, city girl?” Drake’s velvety baritone sends shivers of sensation racing along my skin.

My veins hum with a flickering heat, but I try to sound nonchalant as if his presence doesn’t do strange things to my body. “Over medium, please.” My gut simmers with the low grunt he returns.

“Breakfast will be done shortly,” he says. “Why don’t you relax in the living room? We’ll call you.”

“Is there something I can help with?”

Bert keeps whipping the batter, attention shifting between me and Drake, while the focus of my attention slowly turns back around.

“We’ve got this, city girl. I’ll call you when it’s time.” Drake dismisses me with callous disregard, leaving me unsure what I should do with myself.

Having two men labor over my breakfast is a decadence I’m not accustomed to

but will gladly enjoy. Even if I feel a little guilty snuggling into the warm leather of Bert’s couch instead of setting the table or helping in some other way.

A few minutes later, Bert calls me in. The round kitchen table is set, and I join them for the best eggs, bacon, and pancakes I’ve ever had.

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