The next morning, as I made cheesy scrambled eggs with lots of black pepper, and toast, Chance stumbled into the kitchen, naked and gorgeous with that f*****g log he called “a c**k” dangling between his legs. I stifled a sigh of want as he fumbled with the coffeemaker.
“I’ll do it,” I said, hiding a smile at Chance’s look of relief at not having to figure out something so complex at nine in the morning on a Sunday. I poured him a cup of still-warm coffee and handed it over. He sighed gratefully before taking a sip.
“It’s a little early for you to be up, isn’t it?” I asked casually, wondering if he’d bring up the “company” he’d had the day before. When I’d come back in from the balcony later that evening, I could still hear them in Chance’s room going at it. I hoped the bed survived.
He
