To say my relationship with Owen is fire hot is an understatement, as always.

Valentine’s Day was supposed to be just another Sunday in our little New York apartment. Though, it’s always supposed to be a normal day, isn’t it?

It starts like any other day. I get up earlier than the rest of the household, perform a quick stretching routine, and feed the animals. They get their fill and return to their own morning routine. Our puppy, Brutus, looks out the window while occasionally yipping at a passing bird, and our cat, Leia, glares down at him from her cat tower until she also gets distracted by the same bird, chirping in sync with Brutus’s yips.

Ah, peaceful bliss in the household.

I walk back into the bedroom. The love of my life is still curled in the sheets. His arm sticks out from the covers, perfectly curved and strong even in the morning light as he snoozes away. One of his legs is pulled up, tugging the sheet so that his backside peeks out from the bottom half. It’s shielded by his black boxer briefs which is a downright shame.

Owen still has his glasses on, slightly askew and mashed into the pillow. But even so, his cut jawline makes up for the haphazard way he sleeps. He fell asleep late last night trying to get the newest project launched. He doesn’t always work late. It’s something we’ve both cut from our lives since moving in together. But sometimes we still get carried away, and he always tries to instigate a little bit of action at three in the morning when he crawls into bed and I’ve already been asleep for a few hours.

Bless.

I walk over to the bed and crawl up from the opposite side to sit next to his perfectly shaped arse. I could look at it all day, but instead I give it a nice pat, hoping it wakes him up.

I was hoping a romantic breakfast would be the start of my Valentine’s Day, or maybe even a little something else, but if he’s asleep that does me no good.

I pat his arse again, even giving it a light pinching squeeze. Though, that barely does anything to him. His arse has always been hard as rock, a perfect handful.

“Francesca,” he says, muffled into the pillow. It’s a warning, and one I should heed.

Were I not concerned about the repercussions, I might smack it harder but—

Thwack!

Oop, did it anyway.

His body tenses under the covers after I catch a handful of it post-slap.

“Francesca,” he growls, a second warning. Ooh, yes, give me more. “You do that one more time and I’ll have to do bad things to you.”

A-ha! That’s what I’m looking for.

“On Valentine’s Day?” I say, placing the back of my palm on my forehead. “Oh, the horror.”

“Fran…” The word is slow and almost a low moan.

Give me three warnings and I’m out, I reckon.

“That quite sounds like noises you should be having me make, should it not?” I ask, covering my mouth instantly, knowing I crossed a line. I just hope it’s over the line that leads to my playful morning.

I would be correct.

In a flash, Owen twists, ripping the sheets from his upper body—hello, abs—and sitting on his knees. He reaches a hand forward, placing a hand at the base of my neck, stroking a tiny circle around the start of my spine and tugging me forward.

He waggles his thick eyebrows at me. “Now you’ve done it.”

“I sure hope so,” I say, trying to raise my eyebrows up and down at him in equal measure but, alas, he’s the expert at that. He’s also an expert in other things, and I expect to get that expertise going.

I lean forward, letting his hand on me guide me forward. But just as I’m a mere inch from his lips, he pulls back.

“But first, breakfast.”

The tease.

“I’m rubbish at cooking,” I say, whispering the words against his mouth, trying so hard to lean forward, to get more of him. He isn’t allowing it. He knows it’s driving me insane. I relent. “You make breakfast. I’ll make tea. I can do that.”

“Okay, I’ll make breakfast.” Finally, he leans in, meeting his mouth with mine. It doesn’t matter how much time passes, how many years we’re together, and how many times I have his mouth on my lips, skin, and legs…his taste never gets old. We break apart and I inhale the freshness of the room, trying to bring myself back from his intoxication when he says, “But on one condition.”

Of course there’s a condition. This bloke, I swear.

I sit back on the bed as his hand drops from my neck down to my thigh, still continuing to stroke small circles. I want it closer in, but I don’t press the matter.

“Lay it on me,” I say.

Owen inhales sharply again, taking his time with a response but dragging it out by moving his hand higher and higher up my thigh and to my hip, giving it a tight squeeze that sends my stomach practically flipping down Times Square.

“I want you one hundred percent naked while I do it,” he says. “And tea.” I give a small laugh while he shrugs sheepishly. “You can make tea. I stink at that.”

“So, we’re just cooking breakfast together as a couple on Valentine’s Day?”

He runs a hand through his hair, mussing up the already messy locks of black hair.

“Too romantic, I know.”

“What rubbish,” I say with a smile.

“I think we’ll get through it.” Those eyebrows, the waggling eyebrows, stare back at me and I want to drown in them. But, no, I’m here for a business deal and I will settle on nothing less.

“Okay, master negotiator, I’ll toss you a new one,” I say.

With a small smirk, no doubt enjoying this exchange, he leans back on the bed. I steal a glance down to his abs, reaching out to run my hand over the ridges of it. “Go on,” he says, leaning in to coax me forward.

Right. Negotiations.

“I’ll stand naked if you do too,” I say, pulling my hand away and tilting my head to the side, biting my lip in a challenging glance.

“Cook bacon naked?” Owen asks, letting out a breath of disbelief. “Are you asking for the only thing you love about me to be in danger?” His eyes glance down to his crotch and my gaze follows. He already has a slight bulge in his boxer briefs, making me lick my lips in anticipation.

Focus.

“I’ll protect it. I promise.” I extend my hand out in a business way and he grins.

“Deal.”

Our hands shake and off we go, climbing out of bed and stumbling into the kitchen. He grabs eggs and bacon from the fridge, I reach below our counter and dig out two pans, placing them in the counter. Once he has the bowls and additional spices, the scene is set.

Now all that remains is us.

“Ladies first,” he says, his gaze dragging over my neck, my chest—the shirt barely concealing my already pebbled nipples—my tiny sleep shorts, all the way down to my pink fuzzy socks.

I tug my t-shirt over my head then tug down my panties. It’s an easy strip and I’m much too eager to see the rest of him naked that I don’t bother doing any additional tease. I look down at my feet, still adorned by my socks. When I make eye contact with Owen he’s already smiling, a small smirk at the edge of his lips.

“Oh no, Fran. Those stay on.”

“Dirty,” I coo. “You go now.”

Owen sleeps naked save for underwear and socks which is convenient for him since he’s already halfway there. He hooks his thumbs into his underwear, dragging it lower, lower, lower until the very thing I long to see pops out. It’s thick, long, and already hard as a rock. He steps out of his boxer briefs and starts to go for his socks, lifting an ankle up but I shake my head.

“We’ll keep it fun,” I say with a smile.

He grins and I’m ready to go.

Let’s commence Valentine’s Day, why don’t we?

I reach out for him, and although I can see him wanting to lean in toward my gesture, he takes a step back.

“That’s so very wrong,” I say.

“Breakfast,” he says, as if that’s all he needs to say.

“Fine.” I shake my head, trying to walk as sexy as I can over to the counter, testing his willpower. The distance doesn’t work in my favor—it’s a New York flat for god’s sake—so it’s not a long enough stroll to properly strut my stuff.

Regardless, Owen sucks in a sharp inhalation, pausing to stare at my breasts.

“Breakfast?” I repeat, an innocuous question, tilting my head to the side.

Owen exhales, shaking his head and tsking at me.

“Soon,” he says, glancing from my breasts down to my thighs before twisting the stovetop on. The warning sends shivers down my spine and pressure to my lower stomach.

Soon, indeed.

I pace to the other side of the kitchen, watching as he cracks the eggs in the bowl, stirring them in with a little bit of cream. Even the gesture of his forearm stirring the eggs stirs something else in me entirely. My gut twists and turns under the vision of his arm flexing over and over, his defined wrists give each mix a little bit of finesse.

“Aren’t you supposed to be putting on a show?” he asks me, lifting an eyebrow and setting the eggs down on the counter.

“Am I?” I ask, giving him at least a little spin but it’s barely anything to satisfy what I know he wants.

“Also, I’m about to start the bacon, what happened to protecting me?” He asks, tilting his head to the side.

I take a step forward, reaching down, covering his length with the palm of my hand. Not only covering but giving a light stroke just as his hand did on my thigh earlier. His skin is so smooth under my touch. I want more of it.

Owen’s eyes flutter closed but then open just as quick. He’s trying to maintain composure, but the poor man is lost. I would say I have the upper hand, but I would have spoken too soon.

Owen’s hands go to my waist and he hoists me up on the counter, no doubt finished with our games.

The runny mixing bowl of eggs knock over and smash onto the floor. We both look down, admiring the mess with only a slight bit of remorse, but at this point, my hand is trailing down his abdomen and his hand is already halfway up my thigh, so what is a couple to do?

“Lean back,” he demands, lightly pushing on my sternum. I do as I’m told, falling back on the counter, the cool top stinging my back. I lean into the chill.

He throws my leg over his shoulder, sending my loose sock flying off to the side. Owen doesn’t ask permission because why would he? Owen knows he owns me and, when I reach down, grabbing a fist full of his long black hair, he knows he’s just as equally mine.

I guide him toward my inner thigh. Though why I bother, I’m not sure. Owen has explored every part of me too many times to count. My body may as well belong to him for as well as he knows it.

His tongue drags across every inch of my inner leg. His kisses are light, a small promise for more, as he finally reaches my sensitive area—the area already wet without even a hint of touch to it. He has that effect on me. He always has.

Owen’s hot breathes warm my bare skin, and I can’t help but feel like this is the first crest of a hill to my favorite roller coaster, the hill full of anticipation where you’re just waiting for the drop to carry you to the other side. When his tongue finally meets my skin, parting my folds and nosing his way through, I barrel over.

There I am, over the moon, over the hill, and moaning out his name as he devours me, licking slow, slow, slow, as he buries a finger inside me. It curls in, running over exactly where he knows he should, just as his tongue turns feverish, demanding more, more, more. Each tongue lash is a different sensation, a new pleasure, an absolute intensity cutting through to my core.

More of my moans, more of my hands pulling his hair, more of my legs wrapping around his hard torso, my heels digging into his back…bliss.

I always want these moments to last longer with Owen, but I can never hold on long enough. I can’t help myself. It’s his tongue, his finger going in, pulling out, curling into me and making my stomach twist into tighter and tighter knots until I can feel the ties about to break.

I can practically smell the sheer intensity around us, the hints of smoke like the bonfire scent of his body wash or the steam of our desire.

And then—“Oh God, Owen.”

The release. The sweet release. The enjoyment of his fingers pounding into me, his tongue dancing over the pleasure spot as the tightly wound core of me expands out and the orgasm carries all the way to my fingertips.

I settle into the pleasure, exhaling the remainder of it out, as Owen kisses his way up my thigh, across my stomach, finally resting his chin between my breasts, lifting one eyebrow in satisfaction. Holy hell, I’d ride that face all over again if I could find the energy to do so.

Though, I need to find the energy to do something because when I look to my left, I see something else entirely.

Steam, smoke…it wasn’t my brain getting overwhelmed by the orgasm. It was…

“Fire!” I yell. My yell makes Owen stand straight up. Leia, from atop her cat tower yowls, and little Brutus is trying to climb onto the cat tower with her, his little weight being too much for it, so that all at once, the cat tower—and poor Leia—come barreling down. The bird they were terrorizing on the windowsill tries to fly away but accidentally runs into the window.

I’m trying to process the disaster of animals piling up while Owen storms to the fire extinguisher—unfortunately, something we require in our home by experience, not just because of apartment policy—and points it to the fire, letting loose the worst of it.

The stuff comes out creamy, white, and doing its job spectacularly by putting out the fire. I shouldn’t be so turned on by how masculine he looks putting it out, but I can’t help it when I clutch my hand to my racing heart.

All is still except for the small bit of smoke resting in the flat.

Owen places down the extinguisher.

We look at each other and he smiles.

Even though half his face is covered in the settling dust we’ll no doubt have to handle sooner rather than later, I know that our Valentine’s Day morning couldn’t have gone any other way.

Both of us naked and some type of accidental fire.

Perfect.