Page 129 of Puck Prince

I unbutton my jeans and tug them down just enough.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I promise, kissing her again just before I thrust myself inside of her.

And with that, we throw the rulebook out the fucking window.

37

CALLIE

I wake up to the smell of coffee and bacon. My eyes flutter open, squinting against the sunlight slicing between the venetian blinds. I prop myself up and it only takes me a second to remember where I am.

The sheets that smell like spice and sex. The pleasant kind of soreness I feel in every part of my body.

Owen’s room.

I recap everything from yesterday. The apartment. The closet of said apartment (good Lord…). Snuggling in Owen’s bed.

I smile.

I sit up, stretching my arms over my head. I’m naked in Owen Sharpe’s bed at—I check the time on my phone—8 a.m. It’s kind of a dream, and I can’t help but wonder if any of this is real. If it isn’t, let me live in delusion.

I slide out of bed and pad into his closet, snagging one of his many hockey jerseys. It falls to my mid-thigh and the sleeves hang down to my fingertips. I’m never giving it back.

After checking my hair in the mirror to confirm it’s a frazzled disaster, too far gone to be helped, I make my way into the kitchen.

And promptly slam to a stunned stop in the doorway. Owen’s words from yesterday slip out of my mouth. “Well, that’s one way to say, ‘Good morning.’”

Owen is standing at the stove, wearing literally nothing except an apron. I’m blessed to be standing behind him, so I have two firm, plump pieces of proof that he is full-on commando. Spatula in hand, he spins around. “Do you like your bacon crispy or oinking?”

It’s taking me a moment to process the question because the apron readsYou’ll be Putting My Meat In Your Mouth Later.

“Wow. Just… wow.” I wave my hand over the apron.

“Yeah, the guys bought it for me for my birthday last year ‘cause I’m always the one manning the grill at barbecues.”

My eyes pop. “Like this?”

He turns back to the stove, flashing me an ass so tight it should be illegal. “No, this is for your eyes only, Callie girl. And mouth… if you’d like to make this apron a reality.”

I’d like to make a lot of fantasies swirling around in my head a reality, but I play it cool. “I don’t know about that.”

Owen fakes disappointment. “Damn. Well, what about a kiss for the cook at least?”

I step onto my tiptoes. “That, I can do.”

We kiss for a moment before he pulls away. “Since you didn’t answer the question fast enough, it smells like it’s going to be crispy,” He pulls the skillet from the burner, grease popping.

“Perfect.” I grab a mug and pour myself a cup of coffee, relishing the warmth.

I never thought I’d be a domesticated one. It’s not that I didn’t want that—I mean, waking up to a handsome man cooking you breakfast isn’t exactly torture—but after my parents and Spencer and all the ugly turns my life has taken, I kinda assumed there was a low ceiling on how good my life could get.

But now, it seems sopossible.It seems within reach: happiness.

I could get used to this.

“Now, how do you like your eggs? Scrambled? Over-easy? Fertilized?” He wags his brows as he tosses an egg into the air and catches it. “Please say ‘scrambled.’”

My smile fades as my stomach turns. I thought it was a myth that eggs make pregnant women nauseous. But it very much is not.

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