Always a Thief - Kay Hooper [67]
Without vanity, Morgan knew she looked good in the deceptively simple robe. The color suited her, and the shimmering material clung to her body in all the right places. She couldn't help smiling a little as she tied the belt at her waist, remembering last night's sweatshirt and pants—and the fuzzy slippers. Talk about from the ridiculous to the sublime!
Barefoot, she padded out into the living room. Empty, with music videos playing quietly on the television. She continued on to the kitchen and there found Quinn, his back to her, busy preparing what looked like an appetizing brunch of pancakes with fruit. Since he'd helped in the kitchen while recovering from his wound, Morgan wasn't surprised by his skill. And he was wearing jeans and a white shirt, some of his own clothes that had been left behind here weeks ago.
She knew very well that his still being here today was a good sign; she had half expected him to leave before she awakened. But Morgan refused to let herself attach too much importance to that. One step at a time, that's the way to go.
“Hi,” she greeted him casually.
He looked over his shoulder at her, mouth opening to say something that never got said. Instead, he stared at her for a moment, brilliant green eyes scanning her from bare toes to gleaming hair, then turned a dial on the griddle, set the spatula on the counter beside it, and came to her.
Somewhat breathlessly a few moments later, she said, “I always forget how big you are until I'm standing close to you. Why is that?”
“I have no idea.” He nuzzled the side of her neck, inhaling slowly. “You smell wonderful.”
Her arms up around his neck—and her feet off the floor since he'd lifted her—Morgan murmured something wordless in response and wondered vaguely how his body could feel so hard and yet so pleasur-able against hers. He had both his arms tightly wrapped around her so that she was certain there wasn't a square inch of her front not pressed to his, and since her silk robe was whisper-thin, it felt like only the slight barrier of his clothing separated them.
Then he lifted his head suddenly and frowned, and Morgan felt herself being lowered back to her feet.
“I was enjoying myself,” she protested.
He smiled slightly, but the frown remained in his eyes. One hand gently brushed her hair back away from her neck. “Sweetheart, did I do this?”
She didn't feel pain when he touched her very lightly just below her ear, but she knew he was looking at a faint bruise because she'd seen it in the mirror. “No, I think our friend on the fire escape did it. If he hadn't been wearing gloves, you could probably get his thumbprint off me. It was when he was holding that cloth over my face.”
Quinn nodded slightly, an expression she couldn't read flaring in his eyes. He lowered his head and kissed her, still as hungry as before but brief. “I heard the shower, so I thought you'd be ready for breakfast.”
Morgan smiled at him. “I'm starving. But you turned the griddle up instead of down, and the pancakes are burning.”
Swearing rather creatively, he released her and hastily went back to the counter to pry smoldering pancakes off the griddle. Morgan turned on the exhaust fan over the stove, hoping to avoid having the smoke detector outside her bedroom door go off, then opened the kitchen window for good measure. A cool breeze wafted in obediently, and the smoke dissipated before it could do any harm.
“I'm glad I made extra batter,” he commented ruefully as he dumped blackened pancakes into the trash can. “I must have known you'd come in here looking like Helen of Troy when she launched all those ships.”
“You sweet-talker, you,” Morgan said.
Stirring his batter, Quinn sent her a smile. “Tell me something, Morgana. Do you believe anything I say?”
“'Bout half,” she conceded mildly as she poured herself a cup of coffee. “I'd consider myself in serious need of therapy if I believed more than that.”
He chuckled, but then sent her another glance, this one more sober. “Regrets?”
Remembering what he'd said about what could happen if they became lovers without trust,