Page 67 of Every Shattered Note
It’s not exactly subtle, but I need her closer.Need something to do with my hands that doesn’t involve dragging her into my lap and seeing how far she’d let me go before stopping me.
She startles like she forgot I was here.And fuck, that smile.Small, groggy, all lips and half-lidded eyes—it lands somewhere below my ribs and doesn’t miss.
“I could eat,” she says, voice husky from sleep or sun or something I want to be the cause of.
“Perfect,” I reply, though nothing about the way I feel right now is calm or casual.I need to keep my hands busy or they’ll find their way to her.
The kitchen is stocked—eggs, chiles, tomatoes, mangoes, warm tortillas in a cloth-lined basket.The air smells faintly of lime, ocean, and Aly.
She steps inside as I crack eggs into a bowl.
“You can actually cook?”she asks, arms crossed, one hip resting against the counter.
“I can pretend real well,” I murmur, eyes dropping for a beat to the edge of her thigh where the tunic splits.My pulse ticks up like I’ve downed three shots of espresso instead of the one a few hours ago.
She grins like she knows.Like she sees it all.“Pretend away, Rockstar.”
I sauté onions and tomatoes, tossing in jalapeños I sliced a little too thin—maybe to impress her, maybe to distract myself from the way she’s standing at the island across from me, barefoot, sunlit, too fucking close for clarity.
She reaches for a mango and a knife.Then slices it open with practiced ease.Juice runs down her fingers—slick and golden—and without hesitation, she lifts her hand and licks it clean.
It’s not performative.
Just ...hungry.
My pulse nosedives into hell.
Her lips close around the pad of her thumb, slow and languid—like she’s savoring the taste of sun and sin.She sucks, just a little.Just enough to make my cock twitch and my pulse stutter like it doesn’t know how to keep time anymore.
Then a drop of juice slips down her wrist, gleaming, and she follows it with her tongue.A flick.A glide.Something primal presses against the back of my teeth.
I grip the counter with one hand with more force than finesse.Aly doesn’t even know what she’s doing.Or maybe she does.
Either way, I’m unraveling by the second.
I reach for another egg.Not because I need it, but because I need something to crack before I do.
She doesn’t look up.Doesn’t notice the way my breath stalls or how I can’t stop watching her mouth.It’s probably better that way.
Because if she does.If she sees what she’s doing to me—this kitchen won’t survive it.
And neither will I.
She lifts another slice of mango to her lips, tongue catching the juice before it runs down her chin.Her teeth graze the fruit slowly, a slow bite followed by a soft hum, like it tastes better than anything that came before it.
God, I want to be that fucking mango.
“So tell me,” she says, voice all faux-casual, but her eyes—her eyes burn.“Do you always escape to secret villas when things get to be too much?”
Her head tilts, a glint in her gaze like she already knows I’m seconds from losing my mind over her.Perhaps I’m just imagining everything.Either way I don’t know where to run or how to beg her for a lick or ...something.
I force a breath.My voice drops, low and honest.“Only when they involve you.”
She smirks as if maybe she didn’t expect that answer to mean so much.
She walks over slowly, a piece of mango pinched between her fingers, her eyes locked on mine.Her hips sway with just enough confidence to undo me.She leans across the counter, her hair brushing her shoulder, and lifts the fruit to my lips.
“Good?”she murmurs, her tone casual, but there’s a dare in her eyes.
