Page 384 of Seasons of Love
I was on my back with Mal on top of me in two seconds.
“Finally,” I sighed, loving the feel of his weight on me and wrapping my arms around his neck. He kissed me slowly, trapping my lower lip between his teeth, which totally woke up my dick again.
And then the alarm clock went off.
“Fuck.” We both groaned.
“No round two for us,” Mal said. “What are you up to today?”
“I’m going to El Pancito. I’m wrapping up the first draft of my new novel today with a celebratory cinnamon-and-raisin bagel.”
We took a quick shower, and while Mal got ready for work, I checked my social media accounts. I was still adjusting to the three-hour time difference between Florida and LA, so I normally woke up to a bunch of notifications from the east coast readers.
Mal came into the kitchen ten minutes later. I openly gawked at the sight of him in his gray slacks and white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to show his forearms.
“Damn, I’d totally tap your ass if I hadn’t done that already this morning.”
He laughed and came over, turning me around in the seat and placing himself between my legs. My sweatpants left nothing to the imagination.
“Save that for tonight. Make me that pasta dish you talked about yesterday, and I’ll tap your ass in return.”
My dick jerked its approval.
Mal filled his to-go cup with coffee and kissed me again.
“See you later. Love you.”
“Love you too, Mal. Always.”
After Mal left for work, I got dressed and made sure I had my laptop, charger, and favorite notebook all in my bag before I left the house.
Yesterday I’d spent all day writing in our small garden, so today, I definitely needed to be around people, and El Pancito was perfect.
“Hola, Griff. ¿Como estas?” Elena, the owner of the small coffee shop, asked as soon as I walked in.
I laughed at her greeting in Spanish and went to the side of the counter to give her a kiss. Other than her name, there was nothing Spanish or Latino about Elena.
The daughter of a German engineer and an American teacher, the closest she was to any Spanish or Latino influence were the telenovelas she was obsessed with.
She’d told me when she opened her business that tourists thought they were in a bakery that had been passed from generation to generation ever since Elena’s immigrant ancestors set foot on the island. She hadn’t corrected them.
Elena had quickly become a good friend since I’d discovered she made the best bread in the world, and she discovered I was a romance author who also loved telenovelas.
I mean, all the love, hate, tension, and big hand gestures make for amazing romance, right? Let’s not even mention how gorgeous people are in those shows.
“Pick your favorite spot because you’re not leaving until you finish that book, you hear me?” she said, placing her hands on her hips.
“I’m going to need sustenance, honey,” I replied and walked over to the table in the corner by the window.
“I’ve got you, babe.”
I took my laptop out and opened my manuscript document.
Minutes later, I had a toasted cinnamon-and-raisin bagel and a big pot of coffee in front of me.
I poured the coffee into the cup and added one spoon of sugar.
My usual routine was to have the first cup of coffee while I watched people and let the story I was working on come back to me. Let the character’s voices speak to me.
