Page 9

SUTTON

I wake to the scent of coffee and something else—something warm and indulgent, like cinnamon and browned butter, the kind of smell that wraps around you like a memory of Sunday mornings with Mom before everything fell apart.

It’s the scent of safety and loss all tangled together, and it makes my chest ache in ways I don’t have words for.

It doesn’t belong to my fridge or pantry.

I blink against the morning light and squint at the nightstand.

My laptop’s closed and sitting neatly where I didn’t leave it.

A jolt of something electric hums through me—shock, warmth, and a sharp edge of vulnerability I don’t know what to do with.

He didn’t just notice. He cared enough to act on it.

The blanket’s pulled up over my shoulders, tucked with the kind of deliberate care I haven’t felt in a long time.

There’s a moment—still, suspended—where I just stare.

It’s not just tidy. It’s personal—like someone knew what mattered to me, what details would make me feel seen.

It hits like déjà vu and a warning all at once, unsettling in how accurate it is, as if Deacon’s peeled back a layer I didn’t even know I was wearing.

Like someone mapped the contours of my life while I slept.

The realization slams into my chest like a freight train. Deacon.

Of course it was Deacon. A slow throb starts at the base of my neck, crawling down my spine as I stare at the tidy arrangement he left behind.

The way he tucks blankets, the exact placement of my laptop—he touched my space with care.

Not because he had to. Because he wanted to.

It hits somewhere deep, somewhere raw, and for a breathless second, I don’t know if I want to scream, or curl into that sensation and never move again.

I sit up, fingers curling into the sheets.

There’s something strangely intimate about being cared for without asking.

It’s not something I’ve ever had—not since Mom died when I was still in pigtails and it was just me and Dad, both of us learning how to survive grief in our own stubborn ways.

I got good at pretending I didn’t need anything.

At doing everything myself. So when someone steps in without being asked.

.. it rattles me. Not coddled. Not babied.

Just… watched over. It knots something low in my belly, and I hate that it doesn’t feel threatening. I hate even more how much it does.

I swing my legs out of bed, the wood floor cool against my bare feet, and pad over to the dresser.

I pull on a pair of black jeans, snug and worn-in, then a soft, slouchy tee that slides over my skin like a second thought.

Something casual. Something comfortable.

Something that says I’m fine when I’m not.

Casual armor. I scoop up my laptop, fingers tightening around it like a shield, take a breath to settle the nerves buzzing under my skin, and head downstairs—each step feeling heavier than the last, like I’m already walking toward something I won’t be able to undo.

The smell hits me full force as I turn the corner into the kitchen—coffee, bacon, eggs, maybe even French toast?

It’s the same heady aroma that pulled me from sleep upstairs—decadent and familiar, like something just out of the oven whispering promises in the morning light. My stomach growls on cue.

Deacon stands at the stove, bare forearms flexing with each movement like he's sculpting something out of heat and muscle. The sight hits me like a wave—an intimate punch to the gut, a collision of memory and hunger that makes my pulse lurch.

It calls up the ache of long-buried mornings, the safety I pretended not to need, and the longing I haven’t dared name until now—until him.

An unexpected memory of watching a man cook breakfast the morning after my mom’s funeral, when Dad had tried to fill the silence with pancakes and burnt bacon.

This feels nothing like that. This feels dangerous, intimate, like he’s imprinting on my space with every easy, confident motion.

as he flips something in the skillet with practiced ease.

His t-shirt clings to the muscles in his back like it was painted on, the fabric following every sculpted line like it knows it’s got a front-row seat to sin.

He’s barefoot—barefoot—in my kitchen, like this is normal, like he belongs here.

The sight of him, so easy in my space, so utterly male and capable, makes something twist behind my ribs—tight and hot and almost painful.

My breath catches, low and sharp, as my body hums in response. It’s not just attraction. It’s gravity.

I swallow. Hard.

He doesn’t turn around. Just says, “You always watch people from the doorway, or is that special for me?”

My breath catches. He knew I was there.

“Depends,” I say, voice husky. “Do you always show up in a painted on t-shirt and jeans just begging to be devoured, or is this just for me?”

He glances over his shoulder, and that slow, devastating grin spreads across his mouth. “Only when I want to be caught.”

I step forward. Just one pace. Then another.

“You’re cooking?” I ask, trying to sound unaffected, even as my pulse hammers between my thighs.

He sets the spoon down and turns, leaning back against the counter. “Figured I’d make you breakfast.”

The air thickens. Charged. Waiting.

I try to move past him to get to the coffee pot behind him, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t give me space. Instead, when I stretch past him, he grabs my wrist. Not hard. Just enough.

“You could say good morning first.”

I look up at him, heart slamming against my ribs, breath coming fast. His eyes are locked on mine—dark, waiting, daring.

The air between us crackles, thick with unspoken promise.

I surge up and kiss him—hard, hungry, unapologetic.

It’s not delicate. It’s raw. Tongues clash, mouths fuse, and everything in me screams yes .

It’s instinct. Fire. Need. And something deeper—something that stakes a claim beneath the skin.

My hand fists in his hair, and he groans against my mouth, grabbing my hips and hauling me flush against him.

His cock is hard beneath those jeans, thick and scorching against my stomach, the fabric damp where he’s leaking through.

Our mouths tangle—wet, hot, hungry—and I can taste the coffee on his tongue, feel the scrape of stubble against my cheek, the scent of his skin dark and musky, laced with something wild and purely male.

Every breath between us turns molten. His tongue slides over mine, and I arch into him, moaning as he backs me into the counter.

“I woke up,” I whisper between kisses, “and you were here. Like this. What did you expect would happen?”

“This,” he growls, lifting me like I weigh nothing and setting me on the counter. “Exactly this.”

His mouth is on my neck, biting down just enough to make me cry out—a sharp, delicious sting that sends a rush straight to my core.

His tongue follows, soothing the mark with a slow, wet drag that makes my skin shiver.

His hands slide up under my t-shirt, palms rough and hot against my ribs before they find my breasts, cupping them with a reverence that borders on worship.

His thumbs graze over my nipples in slow, teasing circles, coaxing them into aching peaks as my back arches into his touch, needing more, needing everything.

The contact is electric—every nerve tuned to him, every breath a plea.

“No bra?” he murmurs, dragging his thumbs across my nipples until they pebble under his touch.

His breath catches, jaw flexing as his eyes darken with something feral.

He swallows hard, like he’s holding back a groan, and for a second, I can see the edge of his control fray—just enough to make my pulse stutter. “Fuck, Sutton.”

“That's kind of what I had in mind. I'm clean and on birth control.”

“Same—well the clean part, not the birth control.”

He tugs the t-shirt over my head, baring me to the morning light and his gaze.

His eyes darken, lingering on every exposed inch of me like he's memorizing it, drinking it in. He stares like I’m something holy and sinful all at once—divine temptation sculpted in heat and hunger.

Then he leans in, mouth closing over my nipple with a low, growling moan.

He sucks hard, tongue flicking and teasing, and the sharp pull sends a bolt of pleasure straight between my legs.

I arch with a gasp, clutching the back of his head, legs wrapping tight around his waist, needing him closer, deeper, now.

His other hand palms my breast, rough and warm, while his hips grind forward, pressing his thick heat between my thighs.

Every touch, every breath, is a promise of what’s coming—and it’s going to ruin me.

I can feel the wet heat pooling between my thighs, slick and insistent, my arousal soaking through the cotton and smearing against him.

He’s throbbing against me, thick and hot, the pulse of him matching the wild rhythm of my heartbeat.

Every brush of him sends a shiver up my spine, makes my hips tilt forward on instinct, desperate to feel him where I need him most. My body’s already begging, already fluttering around nothing, aching to be filled.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasps as he peels my jeans and panties off.

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

He shoves his jeans down just enough to free himself, and then he’s pushing my knees apart, dragging the tip of his cock through my slick folds.

The contact jolts through me like a live wire—hot, raw, maddening.

I’m so wet I can hear it, can feel the swollen, aching throb of my body begging to be filled.

My breath catches, chest rising in short, shallow bursts as the anticipation coils tighter.

I’m wide open for him, trembling with the sheer need to be claimed, to feel every inch of him stretch and stuff me full.

My mind blanks, nothing but want, sharp and wild, taking over.

I gasp, hands braced behind me, every inch of me trembling.

And then he’s inside me.

He slides in deep, slow—inch by inch—stretching me wide until my body quivers around him.

The sensation is unbearable in the best way: hot, aching fullness that steals my breath and sends a shudder up my spine.

My nails dig into the counter behind me as he bottoms out, groaning against my shoulder, the sound low and raw, like he’s barely holding it together.

Every nerve lights up with the feel of him, thick and pulsing, filling every part of me.

I’m split open and owned, and I never want him to stop.

“Fuck, you’re tight.”

“Deacon—”

He thrusts—hard, deep—and the breath is punched from my lungs in a broken gasp.

My spine bows, head tilting back, the stretch and drag of him inside me igniting every raw, exposed nerve.

The words die on my tongue, stolen by the searing pleasure as he fills me again, and again, and again, each stroke deliberate, devastating.

I can’t speak—I can only feel. My body clenches around him, slick and fluttering, my thighs tightening as sensation crashes over me in relentless waves.

I’m unraveling from the inside out, owned by every inch of him.

The countertop is hard beneath me. His body is fire in front of me.

The rhythm he sets is steady and deep, each stroke slamming into me with perfect precision.

The friction, the angle—it’s too much, too good.

I cry out, hands gripping the edge of the counter as he fucks me like he’s trying to etch himself into my bones.

My head drops back, eyes fluttering shut as pleasure builds sharp and hot in my core.

He leans forward, teeth grazing my throat. “Look at me.”

I do. And that’s what undoes me.

The way he watches me fall apart—hungry, possessive, reverent—like my pleasure is proof of something sacred, like every pulse of my body around his is a vow. His gaze holds me there, tethered, as if in this moment I’m not just his lover, I’m his purpose.

I come with a strangled moan, my entire body convulsing around him, muscles seizing in waves that crest and break with raw, electric pleasure.

My thighs lock around his waist, holding him deep, the pressure unbearable and exquisite all at once.

I can feel every twitch of him inside me, feel myself squeezing him, milking him, as the climax tears through me like fire—sharp, searing, endless.

My breath catches in broken gasps, vision blurring, every sense drowned in the violent, beautiful rush of release.

He follows with a groan, hips jerking hard as he spills inside me, hands buried in my hair, mouth crushing mine in a kiss that feels like war and worship.

We stay like that. Panting. Clinging. Slick with sweat and satisfaction.

He presses his forehead to mine. "Are you hungry?"

"Don’t flatter yourself. That was the appetizer, now I want the bacon."

"Good," he says, glancing at me over his shoulder with that infuriating half-smile. "Because there’s enough for two. Sit."