“You’re so bad!” I point the remains of my croissant at him when he leans over the table and snatches it with his teeth. Those tiger eyes levelled on me, his jaw working as he chews. I find myself swallowing along with the powerful movements in his throat while imagining myself pressing my mouth there to feel the movement.
Picking up my fork, I spear a piece of mango from a bowl of fruit salad.
“And you have such an appetite. A lust for life.”
I feel suddenly exposed, more so that for just sitting at the dining table in nothing but his shirt.
“If I go for groceries when I’m hungry,” I begin to babble, conscious of the sudden silence, “I seem to buy all kinds of cake.”
His expression remains mild as I pop it between my teeth. “That must be what happened to me.”
“You were hungry?”
“Obviously.” But he’s not looking at the feast before him. He’s looking at me.
I purse my lips, mainly to hide my pleasure. “Are you going to tell me why we’re sitting down to a breakfast that would make Marie Antoinette orgasm?”
“Only Marie Antoinette?”
“I bet you’re more the disgusting protein shake kind of breakfast, aren’t you?” I say, changing the subject. He doesn’t need to hear how, if I was here by myself, I’d struggle not to fill my plate with one of everything. My name is Mimi and I’m a sugar fiend.
“You’re wrong.” He presses his forearm to the table, leaning in as though to part with a secret. “This morning, the only thing I was hungry for was you. It was get out of bed or devour you.”
“I wouldn’t have minded,” I answer quietly.
“I kept you awake a long time last night.”
“I think we kept each other awake.” Because every time we’d settle, skin flushed and a little breathless, Whit might throw his arm around me or maybe my leg would be over his thigh. We’d snuggle—yeah, snuggle. There’d be whispers in the dark, then tiny strokes that would ignite. Before long, we’d be back to that rolling, raging inferno of can’t get enough.
“Yes, that’s true enough.”
“So come on. What’s with all the cake?”
“Not just cake,” he protests. “Fruit and fancy yoghurt.” Y-o-gt; I just love the cute way he says that.
“And cake. A lot of cake.” I find my fingers reaching for a tart.
“I might’ve heard someone say she liked cake.”
My hand stills, midair. “When?”
“And she’d better like cake,” he says, watching me like I’m the cake and he’s the binge eater.
Oh, Lord, he can binge on me any day of the week.
“She does,” I admit shyly, not quite able to look at him as I pick up the tiny piece of lemon deliciousness. He ordered this feast for me and that kind of robs me of breath. I mean, what am I supposed to say? Thank you? Also, do I get to take home what I don’t finish? “What are these?” I find myself asking instead as I point at three bronzed cakes that look like they were made in Jell-O molds. They’re kind of the ugly ducklings of this culinary feast.
“The things that look like inverted nipples?” At Whit’s unimpressed description, I snort and clap a hand to my mouth. “And Heather thinks that’s normal,” he says with a disparaging shake of his head.
“Normal is overrated. I happen to think Heather is a very good judge of character.”
“You might be onto something there. She thinks El is a tosser,” he adds conversationally.
“I’m guess that’s something not very complimentary.” I fold forward a little as my shoulder sag. “Please don’t make this a thing.” I don’t want to come between him and his brother. “Don’t be angry with him. He was just trying to be friendly.”
“Friendly.” He quirks a brow as he reaches for his champagne.
“Yeah, I think so.”
