Page 102 of Rags's Awakening
She stood there in a short purple robe that wrapped around her luscious curves just right.
“Hey, I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said, walking toward her.
“The coffee smells good.” She smiled, glancing over his shoulder. “You don’t need to make breakfast. I will.”
“No way, baby. You relax while I whip up the best omelet you’ve ever had.”
“I’ve never had a guy cook for me. I feel like I should be doing something.” She padded across the hardwood floor, grabbed a mug, and filled it with coffee.
“You can just sit your sweet ass on the stool and look sexy and inviting while I make some chow for us.” He tugged her to him and planted a slow kiss on her full lips.
She hummed against his mouth, warm and sleepy, her hands running up his chest.
“You’re spoiling me,” she murmured.
“Damn straight,” he said, brushing a finger along her velvety cheek. “Get used to it.”
She let out a small, breathless laugh and leaned back against the counter, her gaze tracing the line of his jaw, the fullness of his lips, the shape of his brows, as if committing him to memory.
Rags turned to the stove, cracking eggs into a bowl, but he could still feel her eyes on him, heavy, warm, crawling under his skin in a way that had nothing to do with sex.
It was domestic… and dangerous as hell.
The butter hissed when it hit the pan.
Casey sat on one of the stools and tucked one leg beneath her, cradling her mug in both hands. Steam curled around her face, softening her features.
“Do you cook a lot?” she asked, then took a sip of coffee.
“Not really,” he said, tossing the diced onions and mushrooms in. “I’ve got a few specialties but that’s about it.”
“And they are?”
Tilting his head toward the pan, he said, “Omelets, killer barbecue ribs, and a mean chili.”
She smiled. “Do you cook for the clubhouse?”
“Not really. Just for me and a couple close friends.”
She laughed, the sound low and tender, and his chest hitched, catching him completely off guard.
“I never would’ve pictured you domestic,” she said.
“I’m not,” he muttered. “Don’t go spreading any rumors.”
“Too late. I’m telling everyone you, the tough outlaw, make omelets and kiss women good morning.” She chuckled.
He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Not women, Case. Only you.”
Her mug stilled midair as she locked eyes with him. She blinked a few times, then brought the cup to her lips, her gaze never leaving his.
He turned back and poured the beaten eggs into the pan.
She cleared her throat. “I have some excellent sourdough bread I can slice. Do you like sourdough?”
“Sure, it’s good,” he replied, without turning around.
For a second it was quiet except for the scrape of the spatula and the faint hum of the coffee maker.
