Laila slept peacefully, her breathing steady and soft, her black hair splayed out across her pillow as if she were underwater. She smelled of lemons, like always, and her skin under my hand was soft and supple. I ran my palm over her hip, remembering how good it felt to hold her while I buried myself inside her last night. Her body had felt like it was made for mine. Even now, it still felt that way.
When I’d asked her if I should leave last night and she told me she didn’t want to be alone, we’d taken things into the bedroom. Evidence of our actions lay around the room in many forms. The armchair by the window had been stripped of all its pillows and the throw blanket so I could bend her over it. The bedding was a mess and the bottom right corner of the sheet was off the mattress. Half of the items on her dresser were knocked over from when I’d taken her from behind and she’d grabbed the handles, knocking everything over.
I smiled and kissed her shoulder as my cock hardened, remembering how she’d looked at me when she came. How her lips parted and her voice hitched in her throat, how her cheeks burned red and her eyes went back, and how her whole body strained like a cord pulled tight.
I had to get out of this bed. These thoughts were going to tempt me into waking her up, and after the night we’d had, she needed her rest.
Before I led with my cock and not my head, I rolled out of bed. The plush carpet was soft beneath my bare feet. Wanting to do something nice for her after last night, I put on one of her robes—a soft, fleece-like robe that went down past my knees and had a pattern of flowers on it—and left the bedroom, closing the door behind me. I used the bathroom down the hall to relieve myself and freshen up before moving into her kitchen, which overwhelmed me almost immediately.
Growing up as a spoiled trust-fund kid, I’d never had to spend much time in kitchens of any sort. My parents’ house staff handled all of the cooking and food prep, including simple snacks for when I came home after school. I’d hardly ever lifted a finger in a kitchen, except for at Guillermo’s and Arabella’s.
One afternoon when I’d gone there to visit them, thinking the place would be quiet before the lunch rush, I’d walked in and been bombarded with how crowded the place was. Luke was there helping wait tables—something he never liked to do but he would swallow his pride and rise to the occasion in order to help his parents—and Arabella was running the kitchen, desperately trying to keep up with the food orders and make sure everything went out to the customers in a timely fashion. Guillermo was cooking, but their other server hadn’t shown up because she was at the hospital giving birth.
So as soon as I’d walked through those doors, Guillermo grabbed me by the shoulder with those big hands of his, dragged me into the kitchen, handed me a white coat and a hairnet, and demanded I help him.
I’d resisted. It didn’t go well for me. Guillermo told me not to be a spoiled little shit and reminded me that when friends and family need you, you’re there for them.
That was all the convincing I’d needed. He taught me on the fly how to chop and dice vegetables, how to boil pasta, how to crack eggs, and how to make omelettes. It was a strange variation of skills, but he made sure I kept to those tasks while he did all the more complicated things, and we made it through a four and a half hour long rush in one piece. When all was said and done, I couldn’t believe how much my lower back hurt or my feet.
Guillermo told me that was what labor was supposed to feel like and that I’d earned those aches and pains through honest work.
It felt pretty good.
Now as I stood alone in Laila’s gourmet kitchen, I wondered what I could attempt to make with the least possible margin for error. I didn’t want to trash her kitchen and make a mess all for what I cooked to come out terribly.
Omelettes seemed safe enough. Worst-case scenario, I could scramble them. Right?
I raided her fridge first to check that I had what I needed. Eggs? Check. Peppers? Check. Cheese? Check. I found onions and spinach as well and decided to go for it and see how it all turned out. Finding the cooking oil was a bit of a struggle, but once I had all my ingredients lined up, as well as my cooking tools, I got to work.
Before long I felt at ease in her kitchen. While the omelettes simmered away, I tried to contain my mess and brewed us a pot of coffee.
In all my years, I’d never done this for a woman before. Sure, I’d gotten up and walked down the block to bring coffees back to our room, but that was as far as it had gotten. Jennika had appreciated those gestures, and at the time, I thought they were profound because I’d never done them for anyone else before.
I felt a brief but sharp string of shame.
The women of my past deserved so much better than me. Hell, Laila deserved better than me. The least I could do was try to be better for her. Breakfast in bed after all the calories we’d burned last night seemed like a good place to start.
Heh.
I scoured her kitchen for something to bring the breakfast into the bedroom on. I’d sort of assumed she’d have a tray of some sort, but I found no such thing in the apartment. I did, however, find an old plastic cutting board that definitely didn’t look romantic or thoughtful but would have to do the trick.
When the omelettes were done, I plated them—a term I’d learned from Guillermo—and set them as well as the mugs of coffee on the cutting board. Standing back, I frowned at the presentation. It looked lame. Something was missing.
Eager to impress, I checked out the fruit she had in her fridge and filled two small bowls with blueberries, strawberries, and raspberries. I managed to find small cups, which I put sugar and cream in for the coffees. I wanted something to spruce up the tray like a flower or something, but all I could find were some napkins with a floral print. So I put those on the board, grabbed us some cutlery, and made the slow walk back to the bedroom, balancing the board in my hands, praying to the higher powers that I didn’t drop it.
I nudged the bedroom door open with my hip and slowly stepped in, finding Laila had rolled over and reached for her phone on her nightstand.
“Good morning.”
She jumped, dropped her phone, and looked over her shoulder at me. “I thought you’d gone.”
“Gone? Never. I made us breakfast.”
“You did?” She sat up, bringing the blankets with her and holding them over her breasts even though I’d seen every naked inch of her last night. Her cheeks burned a pretty shade of pink and her lips curled into a smile that made me want to pin her down and kiss her until she begged for mercy. “Are you wearing my robe?”
I shrugged one shoulder. “I didn’t want to put my suit back on and this looked comfortable.”
Laila peered at the tray as I approached. “Storm, this is so thoughtful. I thought… well, to be honest with you, I thought you might have run out on me for a second there.”
I set the board down on the bed before sitting down beside her. “My reputation suggests I’m not the kind of guy to make breakfast in the morning. I get that.”
Her smile broadened as she scoped out what I’d brought us. “Omelettes? Coffee? Fruit? This is amazing! You’re sure you didn’t order this on Uber Eats or something?”
I placed a hand over my heart as if she’d just shot me with an arrow. “Ouch.”
Giggling, she stirred both cream and sugar into her coffee before taking a sip. She closed her eyes to savor it, and I took a mental snapshot of her with her messed-up hair, freckled cheeks, closed eyes, and bare shoulders.