I fell forward onto him, into him, weightless, useless, I was so wracked with sweet, beautiful bliss. His hands grew more rough on my hips, taking what he needed, using my body for his pleasure, and oh my God, was that a fantastic thing to witness. I watched as his eyes grew hazy with lust. His thrusting became more pronounced, his groans deeper and more guttural, and with every muscle and tendon in his body tense, he came. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” he said, his voice almost a whisper as he exhaled, collapsing into me as I held him to my breast. I clutched at him, running my fingers through his hair and sighing.

He fell backward onto the bed and I went with him, giggling and laughing, laying atop him, feeling his body under mine as our breathing slowed and steadied. He kissed me once more, slow and deep. Sweet. Breaking the kiss, we stared at each other a bit, eyes searching.

And then he tilted his head to one side and gave me that killer half grin. “We should totally have pancakes for dinner.”

I looked at the bedside clock. “It’s after midnight, Lucas. We’re way past dinner.”

“Then we should totally have midnight snack pancakes.”

“You don’t know how to make pancakes,” I pointed out.

“You’re really not getting it, are you?”

“Am I supposed to make you pancakes?”

“That’s a great idea!” he said, mock surprise on his face as he ran his hand smoothly over my bottom, then gave it a little spank.

“Oh!”

“I knew you were a dirty girl,” he laughed.

Pancakes. Not the worst idea.

At 2:17 A.M., I attempted to make pancakes. At 2:19 A.M., I banished Lucas to an orange leatherette bar stool at the other end of the island because he was handsy, and I went through five eggs trying to get just one in the bowl without shells everywhere. So pointing my whisk, away we went to the safe side of the kitchen where I could cook and he could watch. And watch he did. I could feel his eyes on me now as I poured batter into neat little rounds on the griddle. I snuck a peek or two myself. Clad in those broken-down jeans and his T-shirt, no shoes, no socks, Lucas looked rumpled. Sexy. And well ridden. And I should know.

We’d had the sex. And it was amazing. But already I was beginning to wonder what this meant. Where was this going? What would happen to the easy, breezy way we had with each other now? And what was going to happen when he left the country, in like, hours?

“What’s on your mind?” he asked, breaking me from my stupor.

“Hmm?” I looked at him, confused.

“You just went somewhere. Where’d you go?”

“Sorry, just thinking. Will you pour some orange juice?”

“Am I allowed to leave my chair?” he asked, and I grinned at him.

“If you can behave, then yes. Only for juice, though. Then it’s back to your post.” I flipped the first round of pancakes over on the griddle, then took the opportunity to watch him as he moved with a quiet grace around the kitchen. He knew that the metallic tumblers in the far cupboard would keep the orange juice icy cold all through the meal, knew the orange juice was in the door of the fridge instead of the back—he was well acquainted with my kitchen.

And not just the kitchen. As I watched him open the carton, those long elegant fingers reminded me of everything he’d done to my body only minutes before. How careful and strong and sure they were, whether coaxing toe-curling orgasms from me, or tenderly sweeping a piece of hair back from my face so he could sneak a kiss.

Back on his stool, orange juice poured, his eyes returned to me once more. I deflected. “How many?” I asked, pointing to the griddle.

“As many as I’m allowed to have,” he said seriously, and I looked over my shoulder at him. He already held his knife and fork in hand. “And if they taste as good as they look, I may have to eat yours too.”

“No way, mister, I’m starving.” I flipped the pancakes onto two plates, then covered said pancakes with butter and syrup. “Start with these, and if you’re still hungry I’ll make you more.”

“Oh, I’ll still be hungry,” he murmured, getting that same look on his face he had earlier. I crossed to him, setting his plate down before him and neatly sidestepping his roaming hands. I needed a few moments to process what we’d just done. I’d take those moments while filling myself up with pancakes.

“So good in my mouth,” he said around a mouthful, beaming.

I couldn’t help but giggle. “My mom’s recipe. She didn’t make them as much as I got older; too much sugar, you know. But when I was little, every Sunday morning she’d make pancakes. Then I got hips, and oatmeal and fruit became my breakfast.” I stabbed up a gooey forkful, dripping with butter and syrup.

“Wait, what do hips have to do with pancakes?” he asked, really not understanding at all.

“Pageant girl, remember? Everything was about caloric intake. How many were coming in, and how many was I burning off,” I explained, giving my hip a squeeze, something I couldn’t have done even two months ago. “I’ve gained at least ten pounds since I’ve moved up here, thanks in part to the pudding hoard in there.”

“That’s crazy,” he said, shaking his head.

“You’ve seen the pudding.”

“No I mean, the whole girls-not-having-hips thing. You’re supposed to have hips. That’s all there is to it. Otherwise, what would we boys have to hang on to?” he said, winking at me over his pancake.