Page 41 of Owned In Misty Mountain

He touched me like he couldn’t believe I was real.

Fucked me like he’d waited years.

Held me like I was the only thing that made sense in the world.

My thighs ache. My lips are swollen. My neck is marked. And I’ve never felt so… good.

I blink up at the ceiling. No panic. No nerves.

Just the steady, quiet drum of feeling content.

Then I hear him in the kitchen.

—-

When I walk out to find him, I pause in the hallway, taking me time to look.

Mike Costa.

Shirtless.

Gray sweatpants slung low.

Tattoo on one shoulder blade as he leans over the stove.

He flips pancakes the same way he could bench-press me without blinking.

And that beard?

It’s wild this morning. A little darker now that it’s grown out.

My nipples harden just looking at him.

He glances over, and that damn look crosses his face again—like I hung the moon and he hasn’t figured out how to stop staring. Doesn’t even want to.

“You should be resting,” he mutters, eyes dragging down my body.

“I am,” I say sweetly, tugging his flannel tighter around me. It’s barely buttoned. Definitely not hiding the way I’m not wearing anything under it. “This is me. At rest.”

“Shanay,” he warns.

I shrug. “You’re cooking. I thought I’d come get some food.”

He turns off the burner, piles pancakes on a plate, and sets it down in front of me at the counter.

I settle on the stool, legs crossed, thighs exposed.

Mike just stands there, with his bulky arms crossed, watching me eat with a look that says I am not helping him stay calm.

I take a bite, chewing slowly and humming in pleasure. “You know this is domestic bliss, right?”

He grunts.

“I could get used to this.” I moan again.

He cocks a brow. “Yeah?”

“Waking up sore. Stuffed with pancakes. A man who growls at me when he wants me. Living the dream.”

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