Anita didn't speak at first—just let herself feel the warmth of his arm across her waist, the steady rise and fall of his breathing against her neck.
They moved to the kitchen like people in a shared dream.
He poured coffee while she perched on a stool, wearing nothing but his discarded button-down, the sleeves rolled to her elbows.
Breakfast was simple—toast, sliced fruit, quiet glances that carried more weight than words.
When he stepped between her knees and set the mug aside, she opened for him without hesitation.
This time it wasn't the frantic, animal hunger of the night before.
Ross made love to her right there against the counter—slow, deliberate, almost reverent.
He kissed her like he was memorizing the shape of her mouth, trailed his lips down her throat, peeled the shirt open to bare her breasts, and worshipped them with tongue and teeth until her back arched and soft whimpers escaped her.
