I grabbed his t-shirt and pulled it on. It fell to mid-thigh. I brought it to my nose and inhaled deeply.
Rule #41: Don’t smell a man’s clothes like a psychopath.
Another rule to add. I was now thinking Momma had left a whole lot of blanks for just this situation.
I padded downstairs, following the hiss and gurgle of the espresso machine. I walked into the kitchen and stopped.
Bridger was there, wearing just his jeans, no shirt, hair messy from sleep and my hands. He was working the espresso machine with the same focused competence he did everything.
And I did mean everything. My nipples were red and sore. So was my…
I blushed just thinking how sore I was between my legs and why.
He looked up and saw me.
“I hope you don’t mind, I borrowed your shirt,” I said, tugging at the hem.
He set down the coffee cup and crossed to me in three strides. His hand slid under the shirt, his calloused palm immediately sinking into my bare hip. His thick fingers squeezed into my flesh with a possessive heavy grip, anchoring me against his hard frame. “Mind? I’m never letting you wear anything else.”
I felt an unexpected blush color my cheeks. I didn’t know how I could feel any sort of embarrassment after the things we’d done last night.
How I’d agreed to be his good girl.
My mountain man was indeed red hot.
He smiled, his hand rising to cup my face. He stroked his thumb over my cheek. “I like this. You blushing. Are you remembering last night? Because if you’ve forgotten anything, I can quickly refresh your memory.” He kissed down the side of my neck, teeth grazing hard enough to leave a mark. “About the sounds you made. When I was eating you out. When you came on my cock. Whichever you prefer.”
I buried my head in his shoulder. “Bridger.” I whispered his name because I wanted him to make me remember. I nibbled the shell of his ear. “How about coffee?”
“Coffee,” he said, like he was reminding himself this was the morning after. Not the night before. He went back to the espresso machine. “Right. Coffee. Normal human activities.”
I hopped up on the counter, watching him work. Sitting on the cold stone in nothing but his shirt made me entirely aware of the yield of my bare thighs spreading against the marble. It was a massive contrast—my curved edges against the solid, weighted. Just like us.
He handed me a small cup of espresso, perfectly pulled.
Just like that first day.
“Thank you.”
He leaned against the counter across from me, coffee in hand, and just looked at me.
“What?” I asked.
“So, are there any blank spaces for new rules?” he asked.
“I guess there’s a few.” I grinned at him over the top of my cup.
“And you’ve broken how many since you got here?”
I laughed. “Pretty much all of them.”
I’d spent my whole life following rules. Playing it safe. Doing what I was supposed to do. Being who I was supposed to be. And I’d been miserable.
Rule #28: A hard lesson is still a lesson. Learn it once.
I’d learned mine. Years of doing everything right and ending up empty had taught me exactly what I didn’t want. I wasn’t going back to that. Not for anyone. Not for any reason.
“Good.” He set down his coffee and then took my cup. “How about I make rule number fifty?”
