Page 100 of Game Misconduct
But then I catch the scent.
Coffee.
Fresh and rich. With that dark roast bite that can only come from my coffee beans.
I sit up slowly, the sheets falling to my waist. My muscles ache in the best kind of way—like I’ve been thoroughly, repeatedly ruined.
My hair’s a mess, my lips are still swollen, and I’m pretty sure I’ve got whisker burns on the inside of one thigh.
But I don’t care. I love every single swell and burn.
I also love the smell of coffee.
And the sound of movement coming from the kitchen.
What I don’t love? The flood of relief through my body.
But that’s to think about for another day.
I slip out of bed, tugging on the first robe I find—his tuxjacket still draped across a chair but definitely not enough to cover what needs covering.
The floors are cool under my feet as I make my way toward the kitchen, pulse rising for reasons I don’t want to name.
And then I see him.
Barefoot, bare-chested, low-slung black pants riding his hips like a fucking sin. A white dish towel tossed over his shoulder, one hand on the handle of the frying pan, the other reaching for a coffee mug.
My coffee mug.
He moves like he owns the place.
Like the night we had never ended.
Like this isn’t a mistake.
And something in me—the part that always braces for abandonment, for regret—eases.
He’s got bed hair and stubble and a bruise blooming low on his side—one I didn’t put there—but I know the scratch marks across his back are mine.
There’s something about seeing him like this, loose and barefoot in my kitchen, that guts me more than any night of sex.
I can see those marks clearly from here, and heat rushes low and deep at the memory.
He turns when he hears me.
Eyes sweeping over my body in that slow, hungry way that makes me forget every reason I should’ve kept my distance.
“Morning,” he says, voice still rough from sleep and sex.
“You made coffee.”
“Figured I owed you something after last night.” A smirk curves one corner of his mouth. “Or this morning. Or both.”
He crosses to hand me a cup, and when our fingers brush, something in my chest catches.
His warmth lingers. So does the memory of his mouth on my skin.
I lean against the doorframe, heart thudding slow and thick. “You cook too?”
