Chapter 64: Sunday Morning Problems
You know those days when, as a guy, you wake up and feel really horny for no reason at all? Yep. That was today. Sunday.
I cracked my eyes open and the first thing I saw wasn’t the ceiling, or the light trying to sneak past the curtains—it was her. Celestia.
She was curled into my side, breathing soft and steady, wearing one of my shirts. Not buttoned all the way, of course. That would’ve been too easy. No, a few buttons undone, just enough to tease, just enough to remind me what I couldn’t stop wanting. The fabric had slipped, revealing the smooth line of her collarbone and just enough of her cleavage to taunt me. Not much. Just enough. Enough to make my morning wood kick against the sheets like it had its own brain.
I stared, and my thoughts weren’t exactly noble.
Sex? Maybe.
A blowjob? God, even just her hand.
I wasn’t picky.
How did she do it? How did she manage to be this... effortless? Bold without even trying, shameless without even blinking? She could take a word like "innocent" and make it dirty just by existing.
I wanted to ask. God, I wanted to. For sex, for anything—her mouth, her hands, whatever would put me out of my misery. But the words stuck, heavy and awkward, choking me before I could even try. If it were Celestia, she’d say it without a stutter, like it was as simple as reciting the alphabet. Direct. Straightforward. No shame, no hesitation.
I groaned before I could stop myself. A low, frustrated sound that had no business escaping my throat.
Her lashes fluttered. She shifted against me, making the sheet pull lower. "Kai?" Her voice was groggy, the soft kind of sleepy that scraped over me worse than nails on a chalkboard—in a good way.
"Morning," I muttered, though my voice was already rough.
She blinked up at me, then down—slow, like she was piecing things together. The corner of her mouth tilted, dangerous even half-asleep. "...You’re staring."
"Observing," I corrected. My eyes flicked down, then back up. "Can’t help it."
The smirk threatened to spread, but she caught it with a yawn and stretched, one arm pushing above her head. My shirt shifted with her, riding higher, the neckline falling lower. My jaw clenched.
"Observing what?" she asked innocently, though I knew damn well she knew.
"You," I said. My hand brushed her hip under the sheet, warm skin meeting mine. "Always you."
Her eyes sharpened at that—like she’d woken up fully now. "Mhm. And what’s got you groaning at eight in the morning, Kai?"
I buried my face in her hair for a second, muffling another groan. "Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to."
She tilted her head, biting back a smile. "You mean... this?" Her hand slipped down, brushing against the obvious problem I had under the sheet. Just a light touch, testing.
I hissed out a breath. "Yeah. That."
Her lips quirked. "So impatient," she whispered, nails dragging lightly before retreating again.
"Impatient? You think this is impatience?" I shot back, lifting a brow. "You’re the one who makes breathing feel like a full-time job."
"Hmm." She pretended to think, gaze flicking up at me through her lashes. "Sounds like a you problem."
I pulled back enough to give her a look. "Seriously?"
She grinned. "Seriously."
I didn’t move. Not really. I wanted to—God, I wanted to—but I wasn’t half as bold as the thoughts running through my head. That was the difference between us. I could only think it. She? She could breathe it into existence without even trying.
So I stayed where I was, half hovering, half frozen, watching her in the dim light as if she’d caught me red-handed in a crime.
Her lips curved, slow and knowing. "You’re blushing."
"I’m not," I lied, even though my ears felt hot.
"Mhm," she hummed, tilting her face closer, brushing my jaw with her nose. "If you’re going to stare, Kai, you should at least admit it."
"I did admit it," I muttered. "I said I was observing."
Her laugh was soft, wickedly sweet. "Observing your... problem?"
I shut my eyes, groaning again. She’d done it—taken something simple, innocent, and twisted it into a noose around my neck without breaking a sweat.
Her fingers slid lazily over the sheets until they found my wrist, tugging me down just enough to make me feel her warmth through that half-buttoned shirt. The fabric shifted, baring just a little more of her skin, and my brain short-circuited.
"Poor Kai," she whispered against my ear, like she was savoring every syllable. "What are you going to do with me?"
My answer stuck somewhere between my chest and throat. I swallowed hard, because the truth was... I didn’t know. I wasn’t sure I could survive the way she weaponized softness.
And just like that, Sunday morning wasn’t so innocent anymore.
---
The kitchen smelled like butter and soy sauce by the time I plated the last of the eggs and rice. Simple, fast, filling—Celestia’s favorite when she wanted comfort food.
The quiet almost covered up the last thing she’d mumbled before curling back under the covers, voice soft and muffled against my pillow:
"Five more minutes, Kai... then I’ll make breakfast. Promise."
She’d said it like a plea, pouting even as her eyes fluttered shut, still flushed and breathless from minutes earlier. Her body had been warm and trembling against mine, her laughter breaking into that sigh that always undid me. I hadn’t meant to wake her with the way I stared, the way I wanted, but she hadn’t exactly resisted when things tipped over.
Now she was limp, worn out in the sweetest way, leaving me to play chef while she reclaimed the sleep I’d "stolen."
I set the plates on the counter and grabbed two glasses of water, letting the silence settle around me. It was a rare, heavy kind of quiet, broken only by the hum of the fridge and the faint rustle of sheets from the other room. Like the world was letting me breathe before she woke up and set it spinning again.
When I finally padded back toward the bedroom, I told myself I was just going to wake her. Breakfast wouldn’t stay warm forever, and she hated soggy rice. But the second I stepped into the room, I stalled.
She was sprawled across my bed like she’d never left it, tangled in the same sheets we’d twisted and ruined less than an hour ago. My shirt hung crooked off her shoulders, half-buttoned at best, her hair damp in loose waves that clung to her neck. She slept with her lips parted, breathing slow and even, the picture of exhaustion.
Peaceful.
That was the word.
No one would believe this was the same girl who threw tantrums in designer heels, who threatened to ruin my life (in the best way) with a straight face, who could twist me up with a single smirk. They wouldn’t believe this version of her existed at all.
But I knew better.
This was her too.
The same girl who swore I was going to be the father of her kids—and in the next breath, annoyed me on purpose, claiming it was just her love language. Who marked me up with bruises like she was signing her name, then curled up and slept like nothing happened. Who slipped into my shirts like they were hers, called me husband just to see me flinch, cooked for me when she felt like spoiling me, and still somehow made me want her more.
She wanted to wreck me, probably first. But she also wanted to love me, with everything she had, right after.
And somehow, standing there, I couldn’t help but think that was a trade worth making.
I caught myself smiling before I could stop it, leaning against the doorframe, content just to watch her breathe.
That’s when the knock came.
The knock pulled me out of the moment, heavy and unwelcome. For a second, I just stood there, staring toward the door like maybe I’d imagined it. Nobody came here. Nobody even knew to. If someone was knocking, it could only be Naomi dropping in unannounced, or Marina barging in just to talk, laugh, and roast me between bites of whatever snacks she’d smuggled along.
But as I moved down the hall, each step felt heavier, dragging. A pit opened in my stomach, because something already felt... off.
I undid the lock, pulled the door open—
And froze.
It wasn’t Naomi. It wasn’t Marina.
It was Avery Brooke Prescott.
Perfect hair. Perfect posture. Perfectly composed, like she’d walked straight out of a photoshoot. And standing there in front of me like it was the most normal thing in the world.
I couldn’t even move. My hand tightened uselessly on the knob, and the only thought pounding through my head was—
How the hell did she find me?
---
To be continued...