“Yeah,” he answered, lips twitching.
“I make homemade hot fudge,” I shared.
“Then f**k yeah,” he replied, now smiling.
I reached up, touched my mouth to his and said, “Let’s go.”
He lifted up, taking me and the afghan with us so I was still covered, which was again sweet.
He pulled on his jeans commando.
I rooted under my pillowcase and pulled on my pajama shorts (commando) and my tank top (also commando).
We went downstairs and I started a pot of hot fudge sauce that eventually burned beyond being edible.
This was because as I was preparing to assemble the sundaes, I got out a spray can of whipping cream
And Raiden saw it.
So the hot fudge ended up burned.
But I ended up na**d on my back on my kitchen table getting another orgasm that had everything to do with Raiden: his hands, his mouth, his tongue and a can of whipping cream.
It was better than any sundae I’d ever had.
Much better.
Chapter Thirteen
That Kind of Love
The next morning…
I was in the kitchen standing at the counter in my pajamas, arranging the cinnamon apple slices on top of the coffeecake batter, when I sensed movement to my side.
I turned my head.
Raiden was there.
This wasn’t a surprise. I’d heard the water going in the bathroom upstairs.
But it was a delight, seeing as he was wearing nothing but jeans, his hair a sexy mess, his eyes drowsy but warm and on me as he sauntered my way.
I smiled. “Morning, sweetheart.”
His “morning” was better.
He said no words but fitted the front his big body to the back of mine and wrapped his arms around me. Then he bent his head and kissed my shoulder.
Yes, a whole lot better than mine.
His stubbled chin came to rest on my shoulder and I knew he was watching my hands arrange apple slices.
This was proved when he rumbled, “That looks good,” his voice deeper because it was like his eyes, still a hint sleepy.
“Apple cinnamon streusel coffeecake,” I told him.
“Jesus,” he murmured, sounding slightly stunned, as he would considering the countertop was a mess of bowls, ingredients and coffeecake preparation residue.
Suddenly, I felt tense, nervous and hurried to explain, “It’s not an, um… everyday thing but I kind of felt in the mood for something…”
Oh God! I should never have pulled out the big gun coffeecake that took forever to bake and assembly was seriously fiddly.
What was I thinking?
“Special,” I finished lamely, thinking that said too much too soon.
Raiden wasted no time communicating he didn’t think it said too much, too soon.
One of his arms around my middle let me go only to lift and wrap around my chest. He pulled me deep into his body, and this time he kissed the skin below my ear.
“Haven’t tasted it yet, but already know it’s perfect,” he whispered there, and I relaxed into his hard frame.
He gave me a squeeze before his arms loosened, and I informed him, “Coffee’s made. Cups are in the cupboard over the coffeepot.”
Raiden let me go, but did it sliding his hand across the skin of my chest, the other one across the material of my tank at my midriff before his body disappeared.
He got a mug and was filling it when he asked, “You need a warm up?”
I was smoothing the top layer of batter over the apples when I answered, “Yeah.”
He brought the pot to my mug and topped it up, asking, “See milk, babe. You need more?”
“Yeah, sweetheart. I use the creamer in the door of the fridge.”
He went, grabbed the French vanilla-flavored Coffee-Mate and splashed some in my cup.
I spread the streusel on top of the batter thinking this was fabulous. Me cooking. Raiden topping up my coffee. Couple stuff that felt natural and right, even though we’d only had two dates.
Maybe Raiden’s brand of slow was good.
He leaned a hip against the counter as I slid the cake in the oven and went to wash my hands at the sink.
“Your day?” he asked as I dried my hands.
I moved to stand in front of him, grab my mug and leaned against the counter, too.
I took a sip and told him, “Grams to mah jongg then me to my place in town, if the cops will let me get in. I need to see what Heather got up to, if I’m caught up, orders filled, get back on top of that.”
“You need me to talk to Joe to make sure you have access, I’ll give him a call,” Raiden offered and I smiled.
“I think I’m good, but I’ll let you know.”
“All right, honey.”
I repeated his question, “Your day?”
He took a sip and dropped the mug to the counter. “Hardware store, back here, installing new locks for you. Then I gotta go into Denver and see to some shit.”
Two sentences, a huge amount to go over.
“New locks for me?” I asked.
“Your lock sucks,” he answered.
“But—”
“And, Hanna, it’s good we’re on this because you answered the door to me last night and I didn’t hear the lock go.”
My brows drew together in bewilderment.
“But… I was home,” I told him something he knew.
“You were a woman at home alone. You should lock your doors.”
“Raiden—”
“No,” he cut me off. “I’m tryin’ to ignore the thought of you takin’ a nap without your doors locked. Bad enough they’re not locked when you’re awake.”
“I live in the boonies,” I reminded him. “No one comes out here. No one even knows there’s a here to come to. But the ones who do, I can hear them coming.”
“Don’t give a f**k. Just a guess, you don’t have a gun. Your lock is total shit and wouldn’t keep anyone out who knows rudimentary lock picking or has the power to land a solid kick to your door. You gotta have a new lock. I’ll check this one,” he jerked his head to my backdoor, “and you might get two. But when you’re home, you lock both.”
“This is the house I grew up in, Raiden. I’ve lived here all my life. I know that it’s—”
I shut up when his hand curled around the side of my neck and slid right up into my hair, pulling up so I went on my toes even as he bent into me, and I saw his face was not sleepy-ish handsome anymore. His eyes were hard and sharp and his jaw was tight.
“Lock. Your. Doors,” he commanded.
“Okay,” I whispered instantly, and he let me go.