Page 99 of Shadows of Obsession

No. He liked seeing me in his shirt. He said so.

The possessiveness of that thought should have worried me, but it didn't. There was a difference between Jaxon's appreciation and Daniel's controlling ownership. Jaxon made me feel desired. Daniel had made me feel owned.

I made my way downstairs, my bare feet silent on the hardwood steps. The scent of coffee hit me first, rich and dark, followed by the sound of something sizzling on the stove.

When I reached the kitchen doorway, I paused and simply took in the sight.

Jaxon stood at the stove, still wearing only his boxer briefs, his back to me as he flipped what looked like pancakes. Chester sat obediently at his feet, tail wagging, clearly angling for scraps. Morning sunlight streamed through the windows, bathing everything in gold. The whole scene felt so domestic, so normal, so right, that my chest ached.

"Are you going to stand there staring, or are you going to come sit down?" Jaxon asked without turning around, amusement threading through his voice.

Busted.

"I wasn't staring," I protested, stepping into the kitchen. "I was... observing."

"Uh-huh." He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes crinkling with humor. Then his gaze dropped, taking in the sight of me in his shirt and nothing else, and the humor melted into something hotter, darker. "Christ, Anna. You're trying to kill me."

Heat flooded my cheeks, but I couldn't stop my smile as I slid into one of the kitchen chairs. "You're the one who left me in bed to make breakfast."

"Self-preservation," he muttered, turning back to the stove. "If I'd stayed in that bed with you looking at me like that, we wouldn't have eaten until dinner."

Oh.

The implication in his words that there would be more, that last night wasn't just a one-time thing, made warmth bloom deep in my chest.

I watched him plate the pancakes with surprising skill, adding butter and syrup before bringing both plates to the table. He'd already poured two cups of coffee, and mine was made exactly the way I liked it, without him even having to ask.

He noticed. He pays attention.

"This looks amazing," I said as he sat down across from me, finally close enough to touch again.

"My mom's recipe," he said softly, something tender flickering in his eyes. "She used to make them every Sunday morning."

The admission felt intimate, a small piece of his past offered freely. I reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "Thank you for sharing that with me."

His fingers laced through mine, warm and sure. "Thank you for last night," he murmured, meeting my gaze with an intensity that stole my breath. "For choosing me. For trusting me."

"Always," I whispered, meaning it with every fiber of my being.

We ate in comfortable silence for a while, the kind that felt full rather than empty. Every so often, our eyes would meet across the table, and the heat that sparked between us had nothing to do with the coffee and everything to do with the memory of tangled limbs and whispered promises.

"So," Jaxon said eventually, a teasing note in his voice, "how sore are you?"

"Jaxon!" I gasped, scandalized even as laughter bubbled up. My face flamed.

"What? It's a legitimate question." His grin turned wicked. "I just need to know if I should take it easy on you later, or—"

I threw a piece of pancake at him, which he caught effortlessly, laughing. The sound was rich and unguarded, and it made my heart feel too big for my chest. This playfulness, this ease, this joy.Thisis what I'd been missing.

"You're impossible," I said, trying for stern but failing miserably.

"You like it," he countered, standing and rounding the table. He pulled me up from my chair and into his arms in one smooth motion, his hands settling on my hips. "Admit it."

"Maybe," I said, looping my arms around his neck. "A little."

He leaned down, his lips hovering just above mine. "Just a little?"

"Okay, a lot," I breathed against his mouth. "I like you a lot."