Christ on a crutch, who in the bloody hell says something like that? I turn onto my side and stare at my alarm clock. 4:43. My alarm is going to go off in seventeen minutes, and I haven’t slept a wink. Not even after a three-mile run and a hot, hot shower. Instead, all I could hear was Matt’s deep voice running through my head. His ice-blue eyes haunted me, the way they shine when he’s happy and darken when he’s turned on. And they darken a lot when he looks at me. I’d like to lick him. Except, he would rather tie me up. And the part that scares me is, I’d like for him to tie me up, too. Dear God, what is wrong with me? I sit up and turn off my alarm before trudging into the bathroom to begin getting ready for my day. When I go down to the shop in the mornings to bake the cupcakes for the day, I forgo any makeup in favor of comfort, then run upstairs about thirty minutes before we open to primp and be presentable for the clients. So it only takes a few minutes to pull on clothes, push my hair back with a headband—the one reason that I regret cutting my hair is no more ponytails—and I’m on my way down to the kitchen.
