I laugh. “Yeah, I guess we did.” I slide an arm under her back and pull her closer so she’s sprawled out over my chest.

I brush her hair away from her face, but she’s just as sweaty as me so it sticks to her cheek, and it takes me a couple of tries before I manage to tuck it behind her ear.

“I think we need a shower,” I say.

“Probably, but it might be a good idea to get in sex round two before we do that, since I assume we’re going to get sweaty again.”

“You want a round two?”

She arches a brow. “Don’t you?”

“Well, yeah, of course, but—”

“But nothing, then. This time I get to ride you.” She braces her hands on my pecs and straddles my hips. “And if I forgot to mention it, I’m staying over again, but this time I won’t do a runner in the morning.”CHAPTER 15

MORNING AFTER

Kingston

I crack a lid and glance to the right. Beside me is an empty pillow with a head dent. My disappointment at Queenie’s absence in my bed is short lived as I breathe in the smell of sex and . . . bacon?

I throw off the covers and sit up with a groan. Foreign muscle aches make moving more difficult than usual. Being a professional athlete means I’m in pretty damn good shape, but it’s been a while since I’ve had sex.

So much sex.

And definitely not the hair-pulling, neck-biting, thrust until the headboard dents the drywall and art falls on the floor kind of sex I had last night.

Banging and clanging comes from my kitchen and . . . singing? I smile and push off the mattress, fighting another groan at the ache in my thighs and my glutes.

I grab a pair of boxers from my dresser and leave the room—bed still unmade and last night’s clothes scattered all over the floor. It’s not how I typically operate, but this morning isn’t typical, so the tidying up can wait. Until after I find my girlfriend, who, judging by the smell, is making breakfast. I don’t know why it surprises me, maybe because I’ve assumed she’d be more of a sugary cereal and Pop-Tarts kind of woman.

My kitchen is a mess. Spoons, bowls, and measuring cups litter the counter, along with flour and discarded eggshells. Several cutting boards and knives are stacked by the sink. My first thought is that this is going to take forever to clean up. My second thought is that I’m glad my cleaner will be here tomorrow to take care of what I can’t today. Including the pile of sheets and towels heaped in my closet. We ended up changing them more than once, and showering twice.

But any worries I have about the mess disappear as soon as I spot Queenie amid the chaos. She’s wearing an apron that my family gave me as a joke. It has a buff male body on it, which is odd, with the way her chest accentuates the pecs. She’s holding one of my mixing bowls—I don’t use them very often, but the guy who comes in to prepare my meals every week is always grateful for my stocked kitchen. I have my mother and momster to thank for that.

Queenie looks up from the open book on the counter and starts when she sees me. “Did I wake you? I was kind of hoping to surprise you.” She stops stirring whatever is in the bowl and sets it on the counter. “I thought we deserved a really great breakfast, but I know you like to follow the recommended eating plan so I made some high-protein, slow-release pancakes with oats, and then I figured that was kind of boring so I made some with shredded coconut, pineapple, and macadamia nuts, and I also made banana-pecan ones because they’re still healthy. I considered adding chocolate chips, but I wasn’t sure if you’d eat any of them, so I held off. Oh, and I made bacon, because it’s delicious, and if you’re going to cheat on your meal plan, you should always cheat with bacon.”

I open my mouth to speak, but all the words get lost as soon as Queenie turns her back to me. And I find out that the apron she’s wearing is the only article of clothing adorning her amazing body. A bow frames the center of her back, the ties dangling tauntingly over the swell of her perfectly bare bottom.

Queenie looks over her shoulder, her expression expectant. When I don’t answer right away, she tips her head to the side. “Kingston?”

“I’m sorry, what was the question?” I ask her butt.

“Would you like some of the turkey bacon in your fridge? It has a Post-it on it that says ‘Friday,’ and I wasn’t sure if that meant it’s for Friday or if it goes bad by Friday, which would mean it should get eaten sooner rather than later.”