Dom’s clipped voice cuts through the snuggly, slick fog. “Is dinner ready?” No. I don’t want dinner. I want kisses for dinner. Lucky presses one more brief peck to my lips, then pulls back. I attempt to frown at him, but he just winks, twinkly eyed and flushed, and leaves for the kitchen. Beau makes a frustrated sound against my neck—and I swear he mutters, “Like clockwork.”
