Page 198 of The Wright Man

I woke up slow and aching, like my body had been poured into the mattress and forgotten there.

Light filtered in through the blinds, soft and golden, slanting across the familiar broad shape of Maleek's dresser. For a second, I thought I was dreaming. That I'd conjured up the scent of his body wash on the sheets and the distant, off-key hum of his deep voice drifting in from the kitchen. But then I shifted—and everything hurt.

My head pounded like I'd hosted a concert inside my skull. My mouth was dry. My stomach was confused.

Ugh.

I squinted against the daylight and lifted the comforter slowly, like it might scream at me. Underneath, I found myself still naked, tucked into Maleek's bed like a little rotisserie chicken. His oversized shirt, the same one I remembered him wrestling me into after my drunk ass stripped down in a dramatic flourish, was bunched up around my ribs. The scent of him clung to it—soap, cedarwood, and a little bit of heaven.

Okay. Not dreaming.

I laid there for a moment, frozen in a haze of hangover and humiliation, trying to piece together how much of last night I'd imagined and how much I'd actually done. I remembered food. I remembered being half-asleep and overly affectionate. I remembered… Lord. Did I actually try to seduce him? In his kitchen? While naked and shiny with Thai food grease?

Please tell me I didn't lick him.

I groaned into the pillow. Full-body groaned. The type of sound that should be followed by an exorcism or a priest.

And yet, despite the ache in my head and the embarrassment curdling in my stomach, I felt—safe. Cared for. Not alone.

The smells wafting from the kitchen helped. Eggs. Toast. Something sizzling in a pan. And coffee. Sweet, merciful coffee.

I peeled the blanket back and sat up slow, legs swinging over the side of the bed like they weighed fifty pounds each. My hoodie from the other night was draped neatly over the arm of a nearby chair, and my bra was folded next to it—folded. Like he was a damn lingerie butler. I blinked at that small gesture, my throat tightening a little around the care it represented.

I tossed my underwear and leggings on, swiped another one of his hoodies instead of putting mine back on, just because I could.

From the kitchen, I heard a low whistle, followed by Maleek's voice—deep, smooth, and teasingly off-key—mumbling along to some old-school R&B track that I couldn't quite place.

I padded down the hallway, hair wild, hoodie sagging off one shoulder, mouth dry as chalk. But even in my post-drunken mess, I couldn't help the way my lips tugged into a smile.

He was standing at the stove when I walked in, back to me, sweatpants hanging low, shirt stretched tight across those stupidly broad shoulders. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, arms flexing as he stirred something in a skillet. Coffee steamed beside him in a chipped mug I recognized from childhood—another anime one, Naruto, I think. Leave it to Maleek to make nostalgia feel sexy.

I leaned against the doorway and just… looked.

Domestic Maleek was a problem. Domestic Maleek humming Mint Condition while flipping eggs? A felony. On every coast.

He turned his head just slightly, like he felt me watching, and grinned without looking back.

"Thought I heard a baby dinosaur stompin' down the hallway."

"Shut up."

"You good? You look like your soul's trying to escape your body."

"Feels like it might've succeeded." I shuffled into the room and dropped into a chair. "Whatever is in that pan better have resurrection powers."

He chuckled, deep and amused. "I got you. Eggs, toast, turkey bacon. And coffee so strong it could bench press you."

"You're a Godsend."

"I try." He slid the plate in front of me, followed by the coffee, and sat across from me with his own. "How you feeling?"

"Regretting all my life choices," I said around a yawn. "Especially the one where I dry-humped you in your kitchen like a damn cat in heat."

That earned a full laugh. Low, rich, head-thrown-back laughter that made me want to crawl into the floor.

"Yo," he said, grinning. "You were on one. I was about to call for an adult."

"I hate it here."