He nodded. “You looked really cute all curled up and dead to the world.”
I groaned again. “Mom used to have to get a spray bottle to wake me up for school.”
Mark chuckled and took another sip of coffee.
“It would be nice to be a normal sleeper...She said I used to talk, too.”
Mark smirked but said nothing.
I sat up straighter. “Wait. What did I say?”
He hid his growing smile behind his Kirby Falls Farmers’ Market mug.
“Marcus Mercer, you better tell me right this minute.”
Then he did laugh outright. “Marcus is not my first name.”
“I know. But I don’t know your middle name, so I had to make up for it.”
Reaching forward, he swept a strand of hair off my forehead. I could only imagine what a mess it was. “It’s Jeffrey.”
Before I could further demand he recount my sleepy nighttime mumblings, he stood and made for the doorway, calling as he went, “I’ll make you some breakfast. Don’t go back to sleep.”
“Okay,” I agreed, struck with a sudden wave of affection that had my voice emerging quiet and choked.
That sense of warmth and fondness went absolutely nowhere when I eventually unwound myself from the blankets and stood. Because there, on my feet, were a pair of oversized men’s wool socks.
I looked down at the thick fabric that definitely hadn’t been there the night before. Flexing my toes, I thought about Mark’s sweetness. He was always considerate and gentle with me, always made sure I had what I needed—that I was safe and comfortable and content. He was steadfast and loyal, the first person to help out in any situation. Mark volunteered his time and his generosity and he took care of the people he cared about.
He was in the kitchen right now, making me breakfast despite the late hour, because he knew it was my favorite meal.
I made my way to the bathroom across the hall and grabbed my toothbrush from right next to Mark’s in the holder. Then I retrieved an elastic from the countertop and did my best to tame my wild brown hair into a high ponytail. After I finished up, I took off everything but the socks and went to the kitchen.
Mark was at the stove, with his back to me, but he must have heard me approach because he said, “What do you want in your omelet? I have those mushrooms you like and a few cherry tomatoes from the greenhouse. I’m out of bacon though.”
When I stayed quiet, he glanced at me over his shoulder and promptly dropped the spatula he’d been holding.
Grinning, I approached slowly. Then I reached around his body to twist the dial closest to me and turn off the heating stovetop.
“What are you?—”
His words cut off abruptly as I lowered my naked self to my knees before him and undid the button of his jeans.
Mark’s eyes went dark and watchful as I tugged his zipper down and shifted his pants and underwear just far enough to free his hardening cock from the confines of his clothes.
“You don’t have to—” he tried to say, but he was again interrupted when my tongue dragged up the underside of his erection.
I watched him swallow thickly as I reached the head, swirling my tongue and collecting the drop of liquid at the tip. Then I brought my eyes to his as I took him deep inside my mouth.
Mark made a rough sound and reached back to steady himself on the countertop.
He looked at me with so much patience and gentle restraint that some troublemaking hellion inside me—one that had never seen the light of day—wanted to make him lose every ounce of that careful control.
And that was what I set out to do. With hands and lips and tongue and teeth, I fought to drive Mark wild. I relished every strangled moan, each whisperedfuck. The way his eyes absorbed my movements and how well I took him.
There was power in giving pleasure, and with the way Mark was looking at me, I felt consumed with it.
His thighs shook beneath my fingertips, and I knew he was getting close. He tugged hard on the line of his restraint and balled his hands into fists. So I smoothed my palms up his legs and used one to grip his length and the other to cup his balls, and I redoubled my efforts.
