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“Would be a shame to let these eggs go to waste,” he grunts, then sits, grabs a fork, and goes to town on his plate like he hasn’t eaten in a week.
All I can do is stare. He shovels one big yellow forkful after another past his lips.
Seriously, he’s devouring the poor plate of eggs like a sea monster engulfing a fleet of pirates.
I never thought watching someone gratuitously consume food could be so erotic. I seriously feel blood pumping into my crotch while watching him shovel bite after bite past his lips and chew.
And it’s my food. I’m feeding him. I’m providing.
There’s something unspeakably sexy about that detail.
Like coming up for air after a deep dive, Stefan opens his eyes, lifts his bearded chin, and looks my way, wide-eyed. “Coffee?” he asks through a mouthful of egg.
I flinch. I nearly forgot where the hell I am. “Yep. Black. Got it right here.” I turn to address the coffeemaker.
“Nice. What about my clothes?”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure they’re going to need a good washing before you can wear them again.”
“Maybe an exorcism,” he suggests through another mouthful.
I let out my own dry chuckle at that. “I’ll be sure to call my local priest,” I put in, my voice flat. For some reason, I feel the need to match his stoic, emotionless demeanor—as if that’ll make him like me more. Weird logic, I know. I pull the steaming coffee pot out and bring it to the table. I fill his mug first, then my own.
He swallows his bite. “So can I borrow some clothes, then?”
My eyes drift down to his bare, beautifully chiseled chest. You in a hurry to get dressed that fast? What’s the rush? I give him a nod. “Yeah. Definitely. Not sure if I have anything in your size, though. Might fit you a bit tight.”
“Everything fits me a bit tight.” He reaches toward the plate of toast in the middle of the table—his next victim—and snatches one. It’s halfway in his mouth before I can even blink.
I forgot how much Stefan can put down. I’ve eaten many a meal with him before. I should probably set out two watermelons, yet another plate of three kinds of bread, and a whole pineapple before he clearly starves to death. “I wasn’t sure if you like wheat or white.”
“Nah. This is fine,” he tells me through his mouthful.
I take my seat and pick a croissant from the plate. Glancing across the table at him, I spot two crumbs of toast in his beard. Should I tell him?
“So you really went through with it, huh?” he prompts me.
I literally haven’t even had a bite of my croissant yet, nor dropped any sugar into my coffee. I feel like if I don’t drink it black like he does, my dick will shrivel up and take a ferry down the river of low fat cream to the land of yellow cardigans and long windswept hair, never to be heard of again.
I’d miss my dick.
I pick up my mug of totally black coffee, steeling myself for a sip of pure bitterness as I ask, “Went through with what?”
“Your whole psychology thing.”
“Oh. Yeah. I … I did.” I give my coffee a little blow across the top, then wonder if even that’s revealing any wimpiness. “I … went to the University of—”
“Yeah, I saw your diploma,” he cuts me off for some reason, his voice carrying an edge. “Great. You got your studies on for a few years, then went and got yourself mastered up, huh?”
“Yep.” I still hold the coffee with two hands, its tiny black pool hovering menacingly in front of my face and giving it a steam bath. His words don’t make me feel proud of my accomplishments. In fact, his tone almost sounds admonishing.
“Is it all you wanted it to be?” he asks next.
I frown. That sounds like a loaded question to me. Also, it’s a bit distracting to try having this conversation with him when he’s so damned … shirtless. “I like my job, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“That’s what I’m asking.”
“Then … good. Yes. I like my job. I like helping kids.”
“Good.” He stuffs his face some more.
I stare at the miserable black pool of coffee in front of my face and attempt to ignore the tension brewing between us suddenly. Maybe him staying for breakfast wasn’t the best idea. Is there actually more unfinished business between us than I thought?
“So tell me,” he starts again. “You ever play ball anymore?”
I part my lips to say something, then find no words coming for an answer. I lift an eyebrow. “I … I can’t really think of when I would find time to play ball. Just a month into the school year and I’m already up to my nose with kids, with paperwork, with … tons of panicked parents. I don’t have time to play games.”
