Lift You Up (Rivers Brothers 1)

His one arm stayed anchored, the other sifted through my hair, a sensation that sent shivers through my insides.

"This is where we're supposed to be adults, and discuss our intentions and the possible repercussions because of our family and friends."

"It is," I agreed, tone mock-serious. "Luckily, we are just a couple of horny teenagers, wiped out from messing around while our parents are out of town."

"That is lucky," he agreed, arm giving me a squeeze as his lips pressed into the side of my head.

We stayed that way, silent, close, for a while, happy, orgasm-contented, before sleep finally claimed us. Kingston's arms stilled and got heavy as his breathing slowed and evened out, slipping away. I followed closely behind, comfortable, warm, and maybe only a teensy bit worried I was going to wake up and find it was all a dream.--I woke up to the unmistakable scent of pancakes cooking.

I didn't even give a second of thought to lounging in bed, waking up slowly. I threw off the blankets, struggling into the pants Kingston had taken off me before and the tee I had taken off of him seeing as mine was likely still on the living room floor, and rushed into the bathroom to quickly throw myself together, but not too much. Just enough that my hair didn't look like a bird's nest and my breath was minty fresh, not wanting to try too hard. And also a little too eager to see Kingston again, get another hit of whatever it was he did to me that I had the feeling was going to be incredibly addictive. But if there was ever a habit to develop, one to a man such as Kingston - kind, good, stable, generous - was the one to get hooked on.

"Sample batch," Kingston informed me when I walked out to Padfoot chowing down on a couple half burnt, half yellowish from low temperature circles in a pile in front of him.

"The first few are always toss aways," I told him, wondering if that slight uncertainty in his voice was because he thought I was going to judge his cooking skills.

Me.

A woman who had never, as in ever, had a man cook for her. Who was somewhat amazed that men existed who did things such as cook for a woman. Who was ecstatic at the idea of eating something I actually didn't have to cook for a change. Who was pretty sure the sexiest thing in the entire world was Kingston in a pair of thick dark gray sweatpants, hair mussed, naked from the waist up, standing in front of the stove with a spatula in his hand.

"Do you like anything in your pancakes?" he asked, looking down at the giant bowl of batter that was likely enough for an army, not just the two of us.

"Not fruit," I declared, wrinkling my nose. "Sometimes chocolate chips when the urge hits. But I liked it plain. With lots of syrup."

"Butter?"

"Nope," I told him with a head shake as I moved toward the coffee machine where he had already set out a mug for me with sugar and cream.

"Hey," he said, voice low as I moved in beside him, making my head turn to find him watching me, a little smile pulling at his lips. "Good morning," he told me putting the spatula on the counter, reaching for me instead, a hand to my hip to turn me, the other at the side of my neck, holding me there as his lips pressed down on mine.

I decided right then and there that if my future didn't involve sweet, lingering morning kisses and pancakes, then, well, I wanted nothing to do with it.

"Good morning," I told him back, what felt like an epically goofy smile on my face when he finally pulled away, leaving me a little unsteady, having to press my hand into the counter to steady myself when he reached for his spatula again.

"Get your coffee and go relax," he demanded, nodding his head toward the couch.

Maybe manners dictated that I should have offered to help, but the idea of being able to sip perfect coffee first thing in the morning and watch a man make me breakfast was a stronger desire than following the rules of polite society.

Curled up on the couch, I did just that.

Watched.

The way he scooped batter into the pan with a spoon like I did, messy and imperfect, instead of the way my parents had always poured it into a measuring glass to make it clean and effortless.

The way his muscles shifted under his skin as he moved around as he reached, poured, flipped, plated, dropped a clean dish towel over the plate to seal in the heat, poured syrup and heated it.

I was so distracted by his movements that I didn't realize he was done until he turned to walk toward me with a plate, syrup, and utensils.