Page 20 of Text Me A Kiss

Chapter Seven

Graham

Bacon sizzled, and I had to blink at the wall while I wondered why that was so unusual.

While the bacon was unusual and not necessarily different, the pillow underneath my head and the blanket draped across my chest were certainly different and didn’t belong to me, and when I stretched out my toes, I could feel the edge of the bed to the right.

Oh. Finally, I realized why my surroundings disconcerted me. I took women home with me. I didn’t go home with women, and I’d stopped making them breakfast years ago.

Today, it seemed, I’d made two exceptions. I’d gone home with a woman, and…

Wait, maybe just one exception. I wasn’t making this deliciously aromatic breakfast.

I turned over, away from the wall, and looked up and to the right. Kitten was humming along to music playing quietly from a single speaker, chopping something on the counter.

For just a tiny second, my Kitten faltered in her song, flustered by my gaze. “Good morning. I woke up a while ago and felt like making coffee.”

Now that she mentioned it, I could smell coffee as well as bacon. “Good morning,” I yawned. Usually, I woke up so easily. Why was I so sleepy and comfortable today?

Kitten turned sideways and stood on her toes to look into the microwave. She wore only a white T-shirt, her perky nipples free to press against the fabric and fully visible, profiled by the kitchen light.

My cock twitched as I remembered taking those nipples between my fingers and lips, twisting and sucking the body below to into a frenzy.

Well, I was awake now.

Fully aware that I was still naked (but why should I care, I had sex with her last night...), I stood and searched for my clothes. I pulled on my underwear and pants, but left my shirt hanging neatly over the back of a chair where Kitten had left it.

I rounded the corner of the counter. The sight of Kitten’s hips and ass swaying as she danced gently to the music struck the ability to move from my legs and left me motionless and wordless just beyond the tiles of the kitchen floor.

“You could help,” Kitten suggested, waving a spatula in my direction and wincing as it flung oil along its length. “Whoops.”

I couldn’t resist. There she was, bent over her completely straight legs as she wiped up the oil with a paper towel, her pale pink underwear riding up as she worked and slowly revealing her sexy round ass, inch by inch, cheek by cheek. I did what any sane, aroused man would do.

My hand shot out and spanked her ass.

Kitten jumped with a little squeak of surprise. She straightened up and opened her mouth, probably to tell me off.

I wasn’t having any of that. My quick step closer took me to her just as her slim body righted fully, and I wrapped my arms around her and sealed her words away with a kiss. Lips stiff with surprise quickly relaxed into acceptance, and her arms found their way about my bare sides to tug against my back and pull me closer.

After a moment, she broke the kiss and leaned forward slightly. “The eggs are going to burn,” she breathed, her voice far too sexy to be talking about food.

“I don’t care,” I whispered in return, gently nibbling at her earlobe.

“I do.” Giggling, she ducked under my relaxed arms and slid on her socks to the stove.

“Fine.” I drew out the word, looking about the kitchen. “How can I help?”

“Finish chopping the onions so I can put them on the eggs?”

The smell of bacon had confused me at first. The silence that followed Kitten’s words did more than that. It unsettled me.

When I made some sort of comment about the food, Kitten just gave me a little “Mhm” and returned her focus to the omelet. Until just at this moment, she’d seemed content, happy, wakeful. Had I done something?

Both relief and consternation gripped me when Kitten sat down with her half of the breakfast, scooted to the edge of her chair, met my eyes, and said, “Hey, I want to exchange real names. Pridamant is kind of a mouthful—but you can keep calling me Kitten, if you want,” she added, her playful attitude resurfacing.

I knew this would happen. When I had mounted the four steps into my private jet, I had been fully aware that, this weekend, all secrets would probably come to light.

But, did it really matter? After talking to Kitten for months and finally meeting her and spending the day with her, I felt like I knew her. She wasn’t judgemental, she liked me for the man she had met online, not the one who made billions of dollars, and she clearly wanted what we had to work. If she knew I was Graham Emerson, the CEO of Midwest, would anything change?