Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 80555 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80555 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
“Eric,” Magnus gasped a warning. As soon as the first hot splash of Magnus’s release hit my cheek, I came all over my fist. The orgasm felt not unlike my earlier exhale—weeks’ worth of tension leaving in a single gust of air like a sponge being wrung clean. I sank onto my heels, a puddle of contentment.
Messy contentment. Between my face, hand, and clothing, I was coated.
“Wow.” I gazed down at my overflowing hand. “That was a lot of spunk.”
“Your idea,” Magnus said fondly. He swiped at a line of come along my cheekbone, licking his finger clean. “A really good one.”
“Yeah, it was.” I groaned, resting my messy face against his knee. Only fair he got some of it too. I tried to summon the urge to move, but kneeling in front of Magnus as he petted my hair and neck felt too damn good to do anything other than soak up all the affection he wanted to dole out.
“And the best part is it’s relatively early.” After a good long time massaging my head and neck, he pushed on my shoulder. “Go make use of my teeny shower, then we can discuss round two.”
“There’s a round two?”
“Oh yeah.” Magnus gave me a look hot enough to melt iron. Fresh energy surged through me. “Shower extra good for me, baby. I’m not nearly done with you.”
And I wasn’t done with him, a thought that should have terrified me but didn’t. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the romance of the evening or the music. Or him. Maybe it was Magnus. But I wasn’t done yet either, not by a long shot.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Magnus
December twenty-fifth meant The Heist was closed all day for Christmas, and I could sleep as long as I wanted. Well, at least until a pounding at my door woke me up when it wasn’t yet eight.
“Come on, come on.” Diesel’s voice carried through the door as I stumbled down from the loft, not bothering to stop for a robe, which meant answering the door in boxers and praying Diesel was alone.
“Everything okay?” I asked, my brain immediately going to thoughts of Maren and the baby. The dogs poked their heads around my bare legs to greet Diesel.
“It’s Christmas morning!” Diesel stamped his feet on my narrow doormat. He threw his arms wide, catching more of the frigid wind whipping through the white powder coating the lawn and driveway. A fresh flurry landed on Ben’s snout. “And it snowed!”
“I see.” I rubbed my arms together. The cold worked wonders to wake me in a hurry, and I had to smile at Diesel’s childlike enthusiasm. “I thought the days of you waking me up at the crack of dawn on Christmas were long past.”
“The rest of the household is up and wants to open presents.” He gestured back at the main house. “You should be there.”
“Okay, okay. Come in while I find clothes.” In deference to the early hour and freezing temperatures, I pulled on a pair of thick flannel pants before debating between a thermal shirt and a sweatshirt.
Diesel made an impatient noise. “Ugh. Next year, you should just sleep in the main house. That would be easier.”
For whom, I wasn’t sure, and I had to smile to myself at Diesel’s utter cluelessness.
“I think Eric might object,” I said mildly. More like Eric might have kittens at the idea of a sleepover where everyone knew whose bed I’d slept in. And even me sleeping on the couch would likely be a dicey proposition.
“What? Why? You guys are buds.” Diesel shrugged. And why not? Maybe I was overthinking this. We were friends. Everyone, apparently, knew this. Was it such a big leap to being open about other things? “And he’s the one who said to fetch you. Something about needing help with potatoes.”
“Well, in that case.” I hurriedly put on a sweatshirt and slip-on shoes and followed Diesel to the kitchen, where Eric was in the middle of a big breakfast.
“My sous chef! Merry Christmas.” He was in a jolly mood, the rare wide smile as he waved me over to where he was assembling a large tray of bacon for the oven. “Want to man the hashbrowns?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” I matched Eric’s happy, almost silly tone as I fetched a large skillet and the oil from the pantry. I knew my way around this kitchen as well as any I’d worked in over the years. Cooking here felt like sliding into my favorite pair of jeans. Comfortable. Easy. Natural. I fit in here, and after a lifetime of traveling, I knew full well how rare that homey, settled feeling could be.
Indeed, I’d owned my prior house for several years and had never felt this deep sense of peace working in that kitchen. Probably because said kitchen had lacked an Eric, humming next to me, working in quiet concert.