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Trey jolts awake in an instant, leaping to his feet with his eyes wide and fists balled, going from deep sleep to ready to fight in the split second it takes my brain to register what’s happening. My heartbeat soars as my gaze flicks between the shattered, wet mess on the floor and … oh, holymother of God.
My eyes snare on Trey, body on display fully now as he stands by the sofa, no longer obscured by bad angles and sleep, in all his shirtless glory. Abs, pecs, biceps, even his damn forearms. Every inch of him is carved from stone, including the rock-hard length tenting his pajama pants. Low-slung pajama pants that draw my attention to the V of muscles at his hips that I suddenly have the burning desire to trace with my tongue. Screw waffles, I want him for breakfast. I swear my mouth’s actually watering.
Plus, besides the obvious hotness, Trey looks ready to fight. To defend. His stormy eyes assess every inch of the room, body language displaying just how ready he is to leap into a fight. I can’t help but wonder what it would look like, to see him grapple with someone in my defense.
It takes a few seconds for Trey to register that there is, in fact, no threat except my own clumsiness, his eyes finding the broken cup on the floor at my feet. Then his gaze flicks to mine as his shoulders drop in relief, his fists uncurling, fingers flexing and making the veins in his forearms stand out.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice gruff and thick from sleep, sending shivers through me.
I do my best to hide my reaction, already knowing I’m bright red with embarrassment about the coffee and my obvious ogling. I nod, tongue producing a bunch of incoherent noises that barely string together into a sentence. “S-sorry, I was just, um, I didn’t mean to wake you. I mean, I thought we could eat breakfast … Waffles! I was making waffles!”
Trey’s eyebrows draw together as he surveys me. “You look flushed, like you’ve been for a run. Making waffles can’t be that strenuous?”
At that, my flush gets about ten times worse. How am I supposed to answer that? Oh, no, my flush is actually from imagining my stepbrother bending me over this counter and showing me what sex could be like.
Yeah, no. I don’t realize my gaze has dropped until his follows, and we’re both staring at the way his cock strains in his pants, a damp patch darkening the fabric. Images of him stroking himself while saying my name replay in my head, and I can feel my own panties get damp. I squeeze my thighs together, mind scrambled.
Before I can attempt an explanation, Trey turns on his heel and walks out of the room. A minute later, the sound of the shower turning on reaches my ears. My breath comes a little easier even though my brain very helpfully offers up suggestions of what he looks like up there, naked and wet under the spray.
I shake my head, trying to clear the thoughts, and turn my focus to cleaning up my mess and restarting the waffles. By the time Trey returns, fully clothed thankfully, I’ve made a whole arrayof toppings—chopped fruit, honey, caramelized apples—and set out the full spread of waffles and coffee on the kitchen island.
I shove a plate towards him, gesturing for him to pile it up with whatever he wants. His eyes appraise the spread, then me, and he nods once in silent thanks. I’m grateful he doesn’t speak because I’m not sure I can answer.
The air in here feels charged with unresolved tension, and the place between my legs is still aching with unmet need. Need I’ve never experienced so viscerally before. I doubt my own clumsy touch will fix it. No, my body craves him no matter how wrong it might be.
I shove my food down, barely tasting the waffles, my mind churning. There’s ten minutes till I have to leave for my volunteer shift, and I take my last bite before wrapping up what little leftovers there are. Trey ate three times as much as I did, which made sense given how giant he is.
I grab the cupcakes I made yesterday from the fridge, but before I even realize what’s happening, Trey plucks the container from my hand.
“What are you doing?” I ask, frowning.
“I’ll carry them for you,” he says simply, which does absolutely nothing to lessen my confusion.
“I … uh … I’m going to the soup kitchen,” I remind him, tilting my head back to find him nodding like he knows that already, which he does. I told him yesterday after all. Still doesn’t explain why he won’t let me take the cupcakes. “I need to take them with me. They’re a treat to put in the meal packages.”
Trey nods again. “Yes.”
Seriously, dude? Throw me a bone here. I inhale slowly, trying to ignore how badly I want him in order to communicate clearly. “So, why are you carrying them?”
Trey raises a brow, and a hint of a smirk makes his lips tilt at the sides. There’s something like playfulness in his blue-gray gaze, the same expression I caught hints of during our Monopoly session yesterday, so unlike his usual stoic, stony expression. I want to see more of that, more of the teasing, fun, soft side of him that I doubt he shows much. I want to be the one who gets that from him, the caring, kind, playful Trey as well as the protective, badass, muscle-man Trey.
I want all of him. Whatever he has to give, I want to take. I realize I want to give him all of me too. I want to give him things I’ve never given anybody else before in my life.
“I’m coming with you,” he says softly, his tone something between a whisper and a rumble, dark but soft at the same time. Sparks shoot down my skin as though he’s whispering in my ear, but all he’s doing is standing in front of me holding some cupcakes like a damn gentleman.
“Oh,” I say like an idiot. “You want to come volunteering with me?”
I nearly faint when he answers with no hesitation. “I want to be wherever you are, cupcake.”
5
TREY
Talia greets everyone busying about the cramped community kitchen by name.
I lose track after the third, not particularly caring if the short redhead Talia’s chatting with is called Jen or Jasmine. The only name that matters, the only damn person that matters, is Talia. I’m a silent shadow as she leads me through the main kitchen space, all shiny silver surfaces and the smell of cheap floor cleaner filling the air. We drop our jackets off in a store cupboard, and Talia quickly points out the small, dark corridor that leads to the bathrooms and extra supply cupboard before shoving an apron at me with a grin.
I balance the cupcake container in one hand, grabbing the apron with the other so it doesn’t fall to the floor.
