Page 41 of Gunnar

“Thanks,” I murmur when he sets the mug in front of me. He stays beside me, his hip pressed against the edge of the island and hand resting on my shoulder, while his thumb traces idle patterns along the line of my neck. The touch sends shivers cascading down my spine, raising goosebumps on my arms. The message my body is giving me is unmistakable. I’m his. His finger brushes over the sensitive spot behind my ear, and I have to suppress a moan, biting my lip to keep from making a sound.

“So,” Jagger drawls from his position by the counter, breaking the silence with his characteristic subtlety of a wrecking ball. “Plans for the day. Because I assume we’re not just going to sit here and watch you two eye-fuck each other across the kitchen island.”

“Jagger,” Damon warns, throwing a playful elbow into his gut.

“What?” Jagger throws his hands up, the picture of innocence. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking. The sexual tension in this room could power a small city.”

“There’s no tension,” I say, my voice higher than intended.

Gunnar’s hand tightens on my shoulder, his thumb dusting over the mark at the edge of my collarbone. “There’s plenty of tension,” he corrects, his voice a low rumble. “But it’s none of your business, Jagger.”

“Everything’s my business,” Jagger counters with a cocky grin. “I’m nosy. It’s my charm.”

“You’re something,” Damon mutters.

The conversation continues around us, lighter but charged with a palpable undercurrent until, one by one, they begin to filter out. Hawk first, after setting his mug in the sink with a heavy clink and muttering something about checking the cameras. Damon follows shortly after to take a call.

Jagger lingers, leaning against the counter with his coffee, watching us with that infuriating smirk I’ve come to know means he’s stockpiling ammunition for a future battle of wits. He takes a long sip, his eyes darting between Gunnar’s hand on my shoulder and my flushed face, no doubt putting together pieces I wish he couldn’t see. Gunnar shoots him a look, one brow raised, head tilted slightly, a silent command that speaks volumes in the language these men have built over years of working together.

Jagger straightens, coffee sloshing slightly in his mug. “I’m just gonna go be…” he pauses, that grin stretching wider, “…apparently anywhere else.”

He disappears through the doorway with a backward glance, leaving the two of us alone. The kitchen immediately feels smaller . Gunnar’s hand slides from my shoulder down my arm, his touch lingering, and his fingers tracing the inside of my wrist where my pulse thrums against the skin.

“I thought they’d never leave,” he exhales before kissing me. Leaving me startled, breathless, and happy I have the stool beneath me for balance. He heads toward the stove. After retrieving a heavy-bottomed pot that has seen decades of use, he fills it with water at the sink and places it on the burner.

I lean against the counter, wrapping my hands around my coffee mug and ask, “What are you doing?”

“Feeding you something other than a protein shake,” he answers without looking at me, adjusting the flame beneath the pot. “After this morning, you need it.”

He isn’t wrong. I’m starving. With the way he demanded, took, and gave until I was left trembling, my body has been running on endorphins and the lingering high of his touch. It also doesn’t help that I haven’t eaten since yesterday. “And exactly what do you plan on feeding me?” I ask, trying for sass despite the flutter in my chest.

Leaving the water to boil, he steps closer, crowding me against the counter, his voice dropping into a cadence that mimics the polished tones of a high-end maître d’. “A delicate preparation of artisanal pasta, bathed in a velvety reduction of aged cheddar and cream, finished with a whisper of butter and a precise blend of proprietary spices.” His eyes darken as he speaks, his hand coming up to trace my jawline. “A comfort classic elevated to its highest form, designed to satisfy on the deepest level and fill you completely.”

My mouth waters at the description. “That sounds incredible!”

He gives me a coy wink before stepping back and disappearing into the pantry. I hear him moving things around, searching for what he needs. He emerges, nothing in his hands but a familiar blue box, one corner slightly crushed. He isn’t entirely wrong… that macaroni-and-neon-orange-powder packet is a comfort classic. I burst out laughing, the sound bubbling up from my chest unbidden, bright and genuine. “My favorite…”

“I know.”

I look at him, confused, my chuckles fading to a soft smile as he sets the box on the counter. “How did you⁠—”

“Baby girl,” he interrupts, moving back to the stove, where the water is beginning to steam, small bubbles popping over the surface. He tears open the box and dumps the pasta into the boiling water with a hiss and a splash. “You’ve got a whole shelf of this shit in there. You’d survive months in an apocalypse, solely on noodles and powdered cheese. I’ve seen your stash. It’s impressive. Concerning, but impressive.”

I shrug, unable to pull the smile from my face. “I like what I like.”

“Good,” he says, stirring the pasta with a wooden spoon he pulled from a drawer. The muscles in his forearm flex with the motion, the ink of his tattoos shifting. “Because I need to feed you, so I can fuel you up for round two.”

My thighs clench together instinctively. I settle onto the stool, cradling my coffee, and watch him cook. It’s mesmerizing. He commands the kitchen with ease and domestication, looking hot as hell on him.

And apparently, he’s mine now… The thought scares me, but something about this feels more natural than any relationship I’ve ever had.

He drains the pasta when it’s ready, the steam rising in a cloud that momentarily obscures his face. He stirs with focus, adding the butter, milk, and packet of cheese powder that turns it all that comforting shade of orangish-yellow. When he sets the bowl in front of me—heaped high with steam rising in lazy curls—my stomach growls again.

“Eat,” he commands, pulling up the stool beside mine, close enough that his knee brushes against mine under the island.

I dig in and make an embarrassing sound that borders on sexual. I like what I like. I can feel his eyes on me, watching me with intensity. I take another bite, then another, acutely aware of the way he stares my mouth. His jaw is clenched, and his hand is every so slightly squeezing his own thigh as though he’s restraining himself.

When I finish, scraping the last of the sauce from the bottom of the bowl, I set the spoon down with a satisfied clink. He reaches out, his thumb brushing the corner of my mouth in a slow, deliberate swipe, collecting a smudge of cheese I missed. His eyes never leave mine, as he brings it to his own lips, sucking it clean with a sound that’s obscene in the quiet kitchen.