I crack a lid and glance to the right. Beside me is an empty pillow with a head dent. My disappointment at Queenie’s absence in my bed is short lived as I breathe in the smell of sex and . . . bacon?

I throw off the covers and sit up with a groan. Foreign muscle aches make moving more difficult than usual. Being a professional athlete means I’m in pretty damn good shape, but it’s been a while since I’ve had sex.

So much sex.

And definitely not the hair-pulling, neck-biting, thrust until the headboard dents the drywall and art falls on the floor kind of sex I had last night.

Banging and clanging comes from my kitchen and . . . singing? I smile and push off the mattress, fighting another groan at the ache in my thighs and my glutes.

I grab a pair of boxers from my dresser and leave the room—bed still unmade and last night’s clothes scattered all over the floor. It’s not how I typically operate, but this morning isn’t typical, so the tidying up can wait. Until after I find my girlfriend, who, judging by the smell, is making breakfast. I don’t know why it surprises me, maybe because I’ve assumed she’d be more of a sugary cereal and Pop-Tarts kind of woman.

My kitchen is a mess. Spoons, bowls, and measuring cups litter the counter, along with flour and discarded eggshells. Several cutting boards and knives are stacked by the sink. My first thought is that this is going to take forever to clean up. My second thought is that I’m glad my cleaner will be here tomorrow to take care of what I can’t today. Including the pile of sheets and towels heaped in my closet. We ended up changing them more than once, and showering twice.

But any worries I have about the mess disappear as soon as I spot Queenie amid the chaos. She’s wearing an apron that my family gave me as a joke. It has a buff male body on it, which is odd, with the way her chest accentuates the pecs. She’s holding one of my mixing bowls—I don’t use them very often, but the guy who comes in to prepare my meals every week is always grateful for my stocked kitchen. I have my mother and momster to thank for that.

Queenie looks up from the open book on the counter and starts when she sees me. “Did I wake you? I was kind of hoping to surprise you.” She stops stirring whatever is in the bowl and sets it on the counter. “I thought we deserved a really great breakfast, but I know you like to follow the recommended eating plan so I made some high-protein, slow-release pancakes with oats, and then I figured that was kind of boring so I made some with shredded coconut, pineapple, and macadamia nuts, and I also made banana-pecan ones because they’re still healthy. I considered adding chocolate chips, but I wasn’t sure if you’d eat any of them, so I held off. Oh, and I made bacon, because it’s delicious, and if you’re going to cheat on your meal plan, you should always cheat with bacon.”

I open my mouth to speak, but all the words get lost as soon as Queenie turns her back to me. And I find out that the apron she’s wearing is the only article of clothing adorning her amazing body. A bow frames the center of her back, the ties dangling tauntingly over the swell of her perfectly bare bottom.

Queenie looks over her shoulder, her expression expectant. When I don’t answer right away, she tips her head to the side. “Kingston?”

“I’m sorry, what was the question?” I ask her butt.

“Would you like some of the turkey bacon in your fridge? It has a Post-it on it that says ‘Friday,’ and I wasn’t sure if that meant it’s for Friday or if it goes bad by Friday, which would mean it should get eaten sooner rather than later.”

“I’m good with whatever bacon you’ve already made.” I move in behind her, slip my finger under the tie along her waist, and pull the bow. “How much time do we have until breakfast is ready?”

Thirty minutes, an orgasm each, and some almost-burned bacon later, we’re sitting at my breakfast bar eating pancakes I would literally kill for, bacon, and a fresh-fruit platter.

“Move in with me,” I blurt. I blame it on the banana-pecan pancakes.

Queenie pauses with a strip of bacon halfway to her mouth—she’s eaten six. “You should probably wait until you’ve seen me have a real meltdown before you start throwing out invitations to move into your pad. I mean, I know I give a mean blow job and I make delicious pancakes, but you should be sure you can handle all of this before you decide you want to share a bed with me every night.” She motions to her now T-shirt clad body. It’s one of mine, and it almost reaches her knees, and the sleeves hang past her elbows. “Especially since I’m a cover hog.”

She’s obviously trying to let me off the hook for saying something so asinine. There is no way I’d ask a woman to move in with me after two weeks of dating, at least until Queenie. She’s a tornado, and half the time I don’t know what to do with her, but I still want to get caught up in her vortex.

“I’m pretty confident I can handle anything you throw at me.”

She props her cheek on her fist and gives me a soft smile. “We’ll have to wait and see if that’s true, won’t we?” She slides off her stool, gathering her empty plate. “Are you done, or do you want to see if you can polish off the rest of this?” She motions to the half-finished fruit platter, dish of pancakes, and few remaining strips of bacon.

I pat my stomach. I could definitely keep going until everything is gone, but it’ll make me lethargic at practice later. “I think I’m good for now.”

“You can save it for breakfast tomorrow.” Queenie grabs our plates and carries them over to the sink.

While Queenie tackles the dishes, I put away the leftovers. She doesn’t rinse the plates before she puts them in the dishwasher, and there doesn’t seem to be any kind of rhyme or reason to how she loads it.

“What’s up? You look like you’re about to have a coronary.” Queenie jams the mixing bowl in between the plates.

“Nothing. Everything’s good.”

She stops what she’s doing and props a fist on her hip. “Do you need to rearrange this?”

“No. It’s fine.” I grab the dishcloth and run it under the hot water so I can wipe down the counters.

She grabs the rag from me. “You’re going to switch everything around when I’m not looking.”

“I’m not—”

She fights a grin. “Just do it. You know you want to.”

I give in, because she’s right. I unload the dishwasher completely, rinse everything off, and reorganize it so all the dishes will get clean. Queenie absently wipes the same spot over and over on the counter, watching me with an entertained smirk.

I raise a brow. “What’s with that look?”

“Your quest for order entertains me.” When I close the dishwasher, she dangles the rag from her fingers. “Wanna show me how to wipe down counters properly now? Just so I know for future reference.”

She grabs my hand and places it on top of hers, then turns to face the counter. I stand behind her, and she lifts things out of the way as I smooth the cloth along the surface. Wiping counters down has never been an activity I would consider sexy . . . until now.

I stop paying attention to what I’m doing about halfway through, because her butt is rubbing up on my erection. She pulls her chestnut hair over her shoulder and exposes her neck, so I lean down and kiss the creamy, sweet expanse. It turns into another orgasm exchange before I finally finish cleaning up the kitchen and put everything back where it belongs while Queenie sits on the counter, laughing at me.

“Do you want kids?” she asks when I finish rinsing out the cloth and setting it to dry on the edge of the sink.

“What?” If I were drinking something, I probably would’ve choked on the word.

“Kids, do you want them? And I’m not asking because I suddenly want to have your babies. I’m sure they’d be pretty and all, but we’re not even at the let’s move in together stage, let alone the let’s plan a family stage.”

I smile at her explanation and the pink tint to her cheeks. “Um, yeah, I want kids, eventually. Do you?”

“I think so, yeah. I’d just like to have my own life figured out before I go adding someone else’s welfare to the list of things I need to manage.” She picks at a loose thread on my shirt. “You do realize that kids are balls of chaos, right?”

“Well, yeah, sure I do.” I’ve spent enough time around my coach’s and teammates’ kids to know that they make constant messes. But that’s why I have a cleaner.

“It means you’ll have to give up all the nitpicky order and organization.”

“Maybe they’ll all like order and organization too.”

She laughs and jumps off the counter. “Maybe.”

My phone chimes from the breakfast island. “That’s Hanna. We usually video chat every other morning to check in.”

“I’ll go get ready for work and give you some privacy.”

“You don’t have to do that. I’m sure she’d love to say hi.”

“I should probably be wearing something other than your T-shirt for momster conversations, though, don’t you think?”