Relief floods me when I look down and find I’m still covered. For a second there, I’d thought maybe I’d flashed her somehow. “At eight in the morning, I don’t know that I own anything.”

She looks over her shoulder at me. Her skin is the shade of a ripe tomato and her eyes are wide. “We need boners.”

Now it’s my turn to gape. “Excuse me?”

The red shade on her face turns fifty shades darker. “I mean, rules. About boners.”

“Rules about boners?” My lips twitch. Now this is a conversation I am more than willing to take part in.

“You aren’t allowed to have boners.” She shakes her head again and rolls her eyes. “I mean in the kitchen. Or in the house at all.”

“So, I should confine my boner to the front yard? Won’t the neighbors complain?” I should take pity on her and stop, but I can’t help myself. Seeing her flustered is refreshing. Breathtaking. Hot as fuck. “Besides, I can’t help what you do to me. In the kitchen. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”

“My mom could come over.” She’s looking everywhere but at me. Still cute. “She’ll see your—” she shakes her head and sputters, then points. “That.”

To my credit—for which, I should get big kudos—I don’t point out that history and her birth prove her mother knows her way around a boner. Instead, I walk closer and reach around her for an apple sitting on the counter in a powder-blue fruit bowl that matches the wall color, the coffee maker and a stand mixer I can’t wait to show her I know how to use. Chicks love guys who can cook. It’s helped me score on more than one occasion. But while I’m ready to score with my new wife whenever she says the word, a part of me is just as eager to prove to her I’m good for more than terrible pick-up lines.

She gives a little gasp as my fingers brush against hers, and I shiver. Yeah, no. Getting to know my wife in the biblical sense definitely edges out proving my usefulness on the scale of things I’d like to accomplish today.

I could cover up. Could even take a piss and get rid of the problem, but this is more fun than I’ve had in a couple of days. More like months. And I’m not itching to hurry it away. “So, is this breakfast you’ve baked for me?”

Her eyes go dark, what could be classified as deadly, and she smiles slow, devious, a smirk of proportions so epic, I’ve never seen another like it. “Cold day in hell, mi esposo. And before you even think to open that stupid mouth of yours once more, for the indefinite future, your situations are your problem.” She wax-on/wax-offs her hands in front of her. “This is off limits until further notice.”

She’s pretty confident for a woman who hasn’t benefitted from the full effects of said situations. I cross my arms, stare directly at her, and wiggle my eyebrows playfully. “I think we’re gonna need to check the contract on that.”

She cackles and I’m reminded of a children’s movie. Wicked witch and all. “I checked already. As soon as I saw your name. And guess what? You’re on your own, big boy. No boner clause is in the contract.”

I cock my head. She’s taking a bit too much delight for my liking. “Pretty sure of yourself, huh? Think you can resist”—I mimic her wax-on/wax-off move—“all of this?” I add a little hip thrust for good measure.

She goes rigid at first and narrows her eyes. Then her smirk becomes wider and brighter. “Without breaking a sweat.”