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And he’s eaten in some pretty swank joints.
Lizzie had insisted on the cleanup, even though Maker had offered to help.
She’d said something about knowing he’d had a long day and probably had more work to do tonight, which was true, so Maker had sequestered in his office to review some contracts and make a few calls to the west coast where the grind was still going.
Lizzie didn’t interrupt to see what he was doing, and she didn’t bother him with questions.
She just handled the kitchen shit on her own, and Maker appreciated the fuck out of that.
So when he’d finished up in his office and made his way through the house looking for her, he’d found her hauling her bags down the hallway toward a guest bedroom.
To which he’d responded by lifting the bags out of her hands and returning them to his room.
“We’ve slept together before,” he’d muttered. “Take up whatever space in the bathroom you need.”
And since his bathroom accounted for some serious acreage, he didn’t worry about running out of room.
And that brought him to now.
With Lizzie lying where she’d sprawled across him in her sleep, her hair spread over his shoulder, and her breath tickling his ribs.
His intention to keep his hands to himself had lasted all of five seconds, so Maker’s hand currently held a handful of Lizzie’s hip and occasionally traversed up the dip of her waist to her shoulder and back down.
Lizzie sighed, her sleep tee riding up just a little, and Maker felt bare skin, so he rolled with it and skimmed his fingers from her ass cheek up the swell of her hip, into the dip of her waist, and up to her shoulder with no barrier between him and the soft sweetness that was Lizzie.
In spite of the desire that curled low in Maker’s gut, it was the most relaxed Maker could ever remember feeling.
No pressure. No questions. No assumptions.
Just the trust of a beautiful woman who let him be himself and didn’t try to turn him into something he wasn’t.
He fucking hated that shit.
And how many women had tried to do it.
Control him. Change him.
Remake him into some different version of himself that society found acceptable.
The more years Maker had spent in the club and the more shit he’d done for the club, and for his family, the scarier he’d become.
And he found that while sometimes he was lonely, it was usually physical contact he missed, not actual company, and he rather enjoyed the distance people kept.
He’d turned himself into something that no one would dare to take on.
Until Lizzie.
Until her sweet vanilla-strawberry scent had wrapped around him and her melted chocolate eyes had looked up into his with curiosity instead of fear.
She was an addiction, and Maker couldn’t get enough.
But he was letting her set the pace.
He wanted her for more than a tumble in his bed. No, he wanted more. He wanted real.
And now that he had her in his house, in his kitchen, and God help him, in his bed, he wasn’t letting her go.
And that feeling curled through his chest and settled low, warm and glowing.
