Page 64 of New Storm Rising
Cock-a-doodle-doo…
“Faster…!” The dream image became hazier as the cockerel crowed again, and I tried to cling on desperately, tried to stay in this wonderful world. “Harder, please, har—ah!”
Abruptly, I jerked awake and sat up, coming face-to-face with the real Mr Rikkard Ambrose, who was already sitting up and watching me.
“Ehem.” I cleared my throat. “The mattress is too soft. That’s what I was talking about when I said harder. The soft mattress.”
“Indeed?”
“Definitely!”
“Well then,” he whispered, leaning forward until his lips brushed against my neck and the sheet covering his sculpted chest fell away, “I shall sell the mattress immediately so you can sleep on the floor. Since it’s still quite new, we should get a good price for it.”
“Nnnnnmaaaa…”
I could hardly recognize the whimper that escaped my throat as my own voice. I tried to get out some words, some meaningful response…
Nothing.
I was too bloody incoherent to tell him I prefer a soft mattress to a wooden floor to sleep on! That should tell you something about exactly how skilled Mr Rikkard Ambrose was with his lips. I graciously proceeded to allow him to further demonstrate his skills in that regard for the next quarter of an hour.
Finally, he drew away.
“Now,” he breathed into my ear, “time to eat.”
Oh yes! Yes, please…! Eat me! Eat me!
“So, put the water kettle on, will you?” Letting go of me, he sent me falling to the mattress with a thud. “I’ll be waiting for breakfast in the dining room.”
Then he got up and walked out of the room.
What was that thought I had about marrying this man being the best idea ever?
“Yesterday, you were the one to cook,” I mumbled into the pillows, which were just so temptingly soft and warm. “I thought you were going to make breakfast?”
He cocked his head from where he stood in the doorway. Half-naked. “And I thought you wanted equality in marriage?”
Dammit! I hated it when my husband was right! That sort of stuff should be outlawed!
Grumbling, I heaved myself out of bed and slipped some clothes on. Trotting into the kitchen, I started to make some breakfast—which mostly consisted of my using a spoon to ladle butter and marmalade onto toast.
What, you thought I was going to try and actually cook stuff, let alone use a knife when my eyelids were still at half-mast? Yeah, I like my fingers far too much, thanks.
“Here,” I groaned, dumping the plate with toast in front of Mr Eye-Candy-You-Can’t-Eat-For-Breakfast.
“Hm.” Mr Rikkard Ambrose gazed at the plate in front of him with piercing eyes—then nodded approvingly. “Swift, cheap and simple. Adequate. Though, next time, forget about the marmalade and butter.”
I beamed. Look at that, there was someone on this earth who appreciated my amazing cooking skills!
Bending down, I pressed a kiss on his cheek. “I love you.”
“Mrs Ambrose?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Remove that marmalade stain from my face.”
“Aww, but it looks so cute!”
