Page 40 of Gunnar

“That’s my good girl.” I lean in, pressing one last kiss to her forehead, lingering longer than necessary. “See you downstairs.”

I force myself to walk away. Each step feels like I’m moving through water, resistance pulling at me to go back, scoop her up, and barricade us both behind closed doors for the rest of the day. But reality calls.

Hearing Hawk and Jagger’s voices in the kitchen, I pause at the top of the stairs for a moment and squaring my shoulders. I descend them, the conversation dying as they hear my approach. It stops entirely the moment I cross the threshold.

“Well, well, well,” Jagger drawls, leaning back in his chair, his coffee cup halfway to his lips. “Look what the cat dragged in. Or should I say, look who finally dragged himself out of the cat.”

“Come on,” I grunt, moving to the coffee maker. “Get it out, and get it over with.” I pour my coffee and take a long sip before turning to face them. Hawk and Damon both glance at me with quiet intensity, but Jagger looks like he’s about to burst. Setting down my mug, I lean against the counter, cross my arms and huff. “Fucking spit it out.”

“Is that what you told her, too?” he snickers like a fucking school-boy.

“Jagger,” Hawk warns, all of us knowing exactly where this is going.

“What?” Jagger throws his hands up. “He disappears for a few hours, and I’m not supposed to say anything when he strolls in with a hickey on his neck?”

My hand rise to my neck instinctively, and a bark of a laugh rattles from Jagger. “Gotcha! There is no hickey, but the fact that you checked means there could be! Not that anyone in this house could’ve missed the signs.”

“The signs?”

“The headboard was banging against the wall so loudly, I thought someone had taken a construction crew upstairs.”

“You’re a fucking child,” I grumble, unable to stop the corners of my lips from curling upward.

“It took you long enough, by the way. I had money on two days ago.”

“You bet on this?” I ask, immediately regretting opening my mouth.

“Hawk did, too,” Jagger blurts, pointing at him.

Hawk shrugs, unrepentant. “It was obvious, brother. It was only a matter of time.”

“And you?” I ask Damon, who’s been suspiciously quiet.

Damon uncrosses his arms, moving to refill his own coffee. “I had next week. I figured you’d get there eventually. You’re always stubborn as hell.”

“So.” Jagger settles back into his stool, plopping his elbows on the counter and resting his chin on her perched hands. “Details. I need details. Was it romantic? Did you carry her over the threshold? Did you whisper sweet nothings?”

“Absolutely not,” I gruff.

“Has it been that long? Have you totally forgotten how to treat a woman in bed?” Jagger sighs, shaking his head.

“No, jackass. I just don’t care to share the details with you idiots.” I’m about to lay down some ground rules, mainly about Jagger not being an ass, when I hear Devyn making her way down the stairs. Every head in the room turns toward the sound.

She appears in the doorway, dressed in a blue sundress topped with a creamy cashmere cardigan, her hair still damp and slightly wavy. She looks fresh and beautiful and completely unprepared to walk into a den of wolves who’ve been dissecting our love life for the past ten minutes.

The golden sun cuts through the kitchen windows, illuminating dust motes floating in the still air. I hover in the doorway, second-guessing my strappy dress and wondering whether the cardigan I threw over it is covering the mark on my collarbone.

“Afternoon,” I manage, my voice much steadier than I feel. Heat creeps up my neck in a slow, inevitable tide, flushing my cheeks traitorously as three sets of masculine eyes swing toward me with varying degrees of knowing.

Jagger opens his mouth, that familiar glint of mischief sparking in his dark eyes, but Gunnar cuts him off with a look so cold and sharply possessive, it could freeze fire mid-flame. Jagger snaps his jaw shut with an audible click, his hand coming up zip his lips, though his eyes dance with barely suppressed mirth.

“Afternoon, Devyn.” Hawk returns my greeting, his voice warm and blessedly neutral, a safe harbor in the sudden storm of tension. He stands by the counter, his massive frame somehow making my spacious kitchen feel smaller, a coffee mug dwarfed in his tattooed hands. “Coffee?”

“Please,” I muster, stepping into the room. The floorboards are cool beneath my bare feet, a stark contrast to the heat still radiating through my veins from the shower and the echo of Gunnar growling mine flitting through my thoughts. I keep my gaze trained on anything but the man who spent the morning doing things to me that I still feel in every muscle and nerve ending.

Before I can reach for a mug, he crosses the distance in a few long, predatory strides. His hand finds mine, fingers threading through my own with an intimacy that makes my breath hitch audibly. His palm is warm, slightly calloused, and completely enveloping. He possessively pulls me into his side, his arm coming around my waist. “Sit,” Gunnar commands softly, the word vibrating against my temple where his mouth nearly brushes. His hand presses against the small of my back, guiding me toward the island with gentle but unyielding pressure. “I’ll get your coffee.”

I sink into the seat, the leather cool through my dress, and look up at him. His expression is tender, making my stomach flip and my heart do a dangerous stutter-step as he moves to the coffee maker. I watch him, unable to look away, cataloging the way his shoulders shift beneath his black T-shirt. He moves like he owns every inch of space he occupies, adding oat milk and sugar—the way I like it—without asking.