In the past, my sexual satisfaction was in direct proportion to how hard I was being fucked. That belief held true until the night I threw decorative pebbles at Baker’s window.

His chest was pressed tight against mine. He held me in position with his forearms, which were slipped comfortably beneath my upper back. Slowly and predictably, his hips worked back and forth, giving me every inch of him with each cautious stroke.

I brushed his hair away from his face and raised my head from the pillow. Without further instruction, he leaned forward and kissed me. I raked my fingers through his hair and slid my hands along his tanned skin until they came to a stop at his shoulders.

Holding him as intently as he held me, I kissed him while we shared the most intimate moments I’d ever had the pleasure of experiencing. It was no longer about orgasms or having his hips slap against my ass. The length of his dick was irrelevant, as was everything else about his appearance.

As he made love to me, my heart became my only receptor. My outer extremities no longer sent signals of satisfaction to my brain. I felt him inside of me. I felt his chest against mine. I felt his lips and his tongue as we kissed.

Yet.

Satisfaction rushed from my heart, and my heart alone.

I welcomed the feeling, viewing it as a reassurance that I’d made the right decision in accepting him into my life fully.

His hips moved fore and aft, bringing with them the energy to pump the feelings through me, and through me they went. I filled with satisfaction until I felt I would surely burst, and when that moment came, I opened my eyes.

Our lips parted. His eyes told me that he, too, was incapable of continuing. With our eyes searching each other’s face for clues of the satisfaction we hoped to provide, we reached climax.

While in the comfort of his bed, with his arms wrapped around me, I had the orgasm of a lifetime. I didn’t scream, nor did I curl my toes or dig my nails into his strong back. I simply allowed it to take me away to a place I’d never had the pleasure of being.

A place safe from harm. A place where nothing but my feelings existed. When I returned, I met his gaze. He was smiling.

His eyes told me he’d been there, too. At the place where our feelings ran rampant and free.

In that moment of vulnerability, I gave Graham Baker my heart.

And, I never looked back.

* * *

He scooped the eggs from his plate like a man who hadn’t eaten in days. I watched with eager eyes as he mopped the plate clean with the corner of his toast and then poked it into his mouth.

“Damn it’s nice to have breakfast.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” I said with a smile. “Want more?”

His eyes shot to the kitchen. “There’s more?”

“There isn’t, but I can make some more.”

He sipped his coffee. “That’s okay. Four eggs ought to be enough for anyone. Remind me of my aunt’s eggs. She made them just like that. Exactly like that.”

I had no idea how he liked his eggs. Instead of going with the safe bet, which was scrambled, I cooked them over medium, my personal favorite. To think that they reminded him of what I hoped was home was uplifting.

I smiled pridefully. “I’m glad you liked them. They’re my favorite.”

He rubbed his hands together. “Let’s make a deal.”

I reached for my coffee. “Okay.”

“Saturday nights, let’s have a standing date. When we’re done, you can stay all night here. Sunday mornings, you make those eggs.”

“I like it. Let’s do it.”

He held his clenched fist over the table. “Gimme some fist.”

I pounded my hand against his.

I cut into the edge of my last egg. “If you like eggs so much, why don’t you cook them in the mornings? You’re self-employed. It’s not like you’re going to be late to the office.”

“I can’t cook.”

“What do you mean?”

“That food in the fridge? Goose got it at the store. I couldn’t even tell you what’s in there. If he doesn’t cook it, I don’t eat it.”

I lowered my fork. “What about that night--”

“Our first date?” he asked.

“Yeah. All of the Brazilian food?”

He pointed toward the refrigerator. “Goose.”

“The left-over lasagna in the fridge?”

He wagged his finger. “Goose.”

“The peppers and chicken that’s in a zip-lock, and looks like it needs tossed out?”

He wagged it again. “Goose. He’ll toss that out. He always does.”

I chuckled. “How long has he been cooking for you?”

“Fifteen years or so.”

“Wow. That’s a good friend.”

“We’re more than friends. We’re brothers. In time, you’ll see just how close we are.”

“I can’t wait.”

“You’ll see through their actions.” He reached for his coffee. “Couple of ‘em aren’t keen on talking. But you’ll see by what they do and how they act that we’re noting but six brothers who share a few common bonds.”

I hoped he was right. My guess was that although they might eventually warm up to me, the process would be slow.

Very slow.

After interrupting their schedule, taking one of their men’s time, and then stealing his heart, I couldn’t see them welcoming me with open arms any time soon. I took the last bite of my egg and recalled Mort’s words of wisdom.

We can’t let what might happen keep us from doing what our heart tells us is right.

That simple phrase was I needed to remember.