I never pictured myself as being trim, or toned, or sexy in any way. Just a soot-servant.
A soot-servant who happens to be madly kissing the Seed of Chaos and madly enjoying it.
I don’t know how long we sit like this until suddenly he chuckles and shoves me off his lap. Sending me sailing backward to just barely land on my feet. I meet his gaze in pure shock, and he just laughs harder.
“You’re baking sweet bread, remember?”
“What? No, I’m not,” I gasp, partly because my heart is racing in shock and partly because I feel thoroughly ripped off right now.
“Warm raisin bread for lates,” he adds, but he runs his thumb over his lips as he speaks, giving away everything.
I fold my arms over my chest and tap my damn foot. “If you can’t handle me kissing you back, then don’t put me in your lap,” I growl.
He gives me that lopsided smile, saying, “I’m not allowed to take your clothes off – so we need to bake bread.”
I growl at him, hard. I don’t want to talk about bread. I don’t want to make bread. What I want is to keep kissing him – but I can’t tell him that.
“I’m not making bread. I won’t even be awake for lates – what kind of crazy people have a meal at midnight?”
“Immortal ones who don’t need to sleep,” he says.
Reaching up behind him, he drags down a nasty-looking jar of starter. Wet flour and bacteria. How all bread begins – unless you’re poor, then you’re lucky to just have the flour and the water.
“Okay, you measure the flour, and I’ll work the starter,” he says, but he doesn’t hop down off the bench.
So the argument is over – and the kissing.
In a huff, I drag one of the bags of flour out of the larder. One that Rose’s team purchased in the village – whatever village that might be. I have no idea. I grab the scoop from the shelf and level out a cup.
He has the jar open, waiting for me to pour flour onto the bench beside him. Which would be far too easy and far less fun.
I keep a straight face, my gaze on the spot as I tap it with my left hand. “Here?” I ask. “Because we really should do this properly.”
My left hand stays on the bench, while my right hand and the scoop lift – then flick – and cover him in a puff of white powder.
Puff – snow cloud.
I’ve barely made the move when he launches, wraps me up in his strong arms, and begins shaking his head like a chuckin’ dog. More flour fills the air.
I squeal, getting flour in my mouth, and pinch my eyes shut, feeling us move across the kitchen and my back press against the larder door. When he stops shaking, and there’s less risk that the flour’s going to go into my eyes, I open them just a peek.
His chest is rising and falling in heavy breaths. A broad smile is on his lips – the kind that makes his blue eyes come alive. One arm wraps around my back, the other pressed into the cupboard beside my head.
I breathe deeply, filling my lungs with the copper in the air as mischief unfolds and his orange-cherry taste settles on my tongue.
“We,” he says, his voice smooth as silk, slipping deep within me and down. Down to places that shouldn’t get excited when being hugged by a guy covered in flour. “We should do it properly.”
“It?” I gasp.
What are we talking about now?
I’m blaming this on the wine. Yep, definitely not my fault.
“The wine made me do it,” I say. “No, you made me do it. You started kissing me first.”
He chews on the inside of his lip for a second.
A very short second – before those lips are against mine again.
Again.
No complaints here. But the gentle distract Shade kisses of moments ago are gone, replaced by hot passion that seeps into us both. His hand trails down the cupboard, making a sound almost like he’s digging his fingernails in. Trying to stop himself.
Control – gone.
I grab his shirt, somewhere near his hip, and ball it into my fist. Sure, he could pull away from me with ease, but I still have to try. He can’t push me away this time – because there’s a door pressed to my back. He pauses for the barest of seconds, then reaches down to hook his hands under my ass and lifts me up off the ground. My legs wrap around his waist, and the very reason he pushed me off his lap sits hard against me.
Oh, it makes sense now.
And I also feel rather dumb about it. Of course, it makes sense. A small part of me regrets not tumbling in the sheets with someone before meeting these guys – I am drastically underprepared for this.
I pull the hem of his shirt up, exposing skin to run my hands all over.
He moans, pulling back from our kiss enough to say something. My lips chase his, trying to convince him to shut up. Heart-racing need runs through me, matching his. I slide both my hands under his shirt and push up, wanting it out of the way.
“Vexy,” he moans. “If you start taking my clothes off, I’m going to start taking yours off. Then Pax is going to kill me. Thane probably won’t, but Pax will.”
“Kind of the point,” I gasp.
He chuckles. “You’re trying to kill me?”
“Nope, I’m trying to get you to take my clothes off,” I admit, delirious with kissing and wine, not much else on my mind.
He kisses my lips, then my cheek. Trails his touch and soft-pressed kisses like smoldering fires down my neck and along my collarbone. “No,” he
