Page 63 of King of Pain (Damaged Hearts #1)

I Want to Know What Love Is

Anthony

I wake up wrapped in warmth and the kind of peace I didn’t think I’d ever feel again.

Little G is curled at the foot of the bed, and I’m tangled up in Chance. I’m facing him, tucked under one of his arms, our legs entwined in a perfect fit. His breath is slow and even as he sleeps and I lay still—listening, grounding myself in the calm that only his presence can provide.

I take advantage of the moment and study his face.

He looks younger when he sleeps. Or maybe it’s just softer, calmer. Like the weight he carries releases him for a few short hours. I reach up and gently trace the edge of one of the tattoos on the arm he has draped over me, letting my fingertips skim along the inked skin.

His other arm is a full sleeve of designs that come together to create a scene reminiscent of a post-apocalyptic underground bunker—or one of Freddy Kreuger’s high school steam rooms. It’s twisted, in a beautiful way.

But this arm is my favorite. The designs are simple, but fascinating.

Tribal stripes wrap around his elbow and meld into more intricate designs crawling up his forearm, stopping abruptly at his wrist. All his ink is sexy, if I’m being honest. It’s a problem, really.

There isn’t a part of Chance Sullivan that I can resist.

Last night replays in flashes.

The way we sat shoulder to shoulder at the kitchen island, Chance moaning over every bite of pasta like he hadn’t eaten in a month.

Guinness laying on the floor behind us, patiently waiting for a noodle to fall off one of our forks.

Then we curled up on the couch trading bites of Chance’s favorite lemon ice cream I had delivered and watching ‘80s movies until I couldn’t help myself—started kissing him just below the ear, right where his jaw meets his neck.

Note to self: that spot drives him crazy.

Which is how we ended up tangled in these sheets, with Chance proving once again his mouth was made for sin.

Yeah. I want more nights like that.

And mornings like this.

Chance stirs beneath me, eyes fluttering open, and when he sees me, a slow, devastatingly beautiful smile spreads across his face.

“I could get used to this,” he murmurs, voice still thick with sleep. He lifts a hand and brushes his knuckles across my cheek. “Having you in my space.”

“Me too,” I whisper, leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

He looks down toward the foot of the bed. “Both of you.”

Little G chooses that exact moment to stretch, thump his tail, and yawn dramatically.

Chance grins, pushes the covers back, and hops out of bed—completely naked and on full display. He stretches, arms above his head, the muscles beneath his skin putting on a show.

He’s putting on a show.

Because he knows I’m watching.

“Yeah, I could definitely get used to this.” I mutter to myself, shaking my head.

Chance turns his head over his shoulder, one brow raised. “I can feel your eyes on me, baby.”

I roll over and smack his perfect ass. “What do you expect, walking around with an entire bakery back there?”

He throws his head back and laughs, rich and loud. Then I drop my voice, low and sultry. “And I’m starving.”

Chance groans, grabs a pair of sweats off the chair and slides into them a bit dramatically. “If I didn’t know Little G needs to go out right now, you’d be in big trouble.”

I grin and wave him off. “Go on. I’ll make coffee and get his food ready.”

He grumbles something that sounds an awful lot like “brat” and pulls an Erasure T-shirt over his head, leans down, presses a kiss to my lips, and calls to Little G.

As they head out of the room, I lie back against the pillows, heart full, and think—Yeah, I really could get used to this.

I pad barefoot into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and start hunting through cabinets for coffee mugs and pods. It doesn’t take long. The place is nearly barren. I get the first cup of coffee brewing and grab two ceramic bowls from the lower cabinet.

I fill one bowl with water, then open the bag of dog food I ordered, fill the other and set both bowls on the floor near the island.

I set a small mixing bowl on the counter and pull eggs and bacon from the fridge, followed by strawberries, flour, sugar, vanilla, and butter.

I beat the eggs for a scramble, set the bowl aside, then get a pan going for the bacon.

While that sizzles, I get to work on the crepe batter.

Strawberries get sliced and tossed into a bowl.

I’ve missed doing this for him.

It’s my love language.

The door opens and Chance steps inside, hair damp with sweat and eyes sparkling as he takes in the sight of me whirling around his kitchen. Guinness trots past him to his water bowl, panting happily.

“Smells good,” Chance says, breathless. “Good thing I decided to run him.”

He walks up behind me, wraps his arms around my waist, and presses a kiss to my neck. “You’re going to make me fat.”

I laugh and lean back into him. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“Spend the day with me?” he murmurs into my ear. “We can take Little G to the park and window shop.”

I nod without hesitation. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

“Good.” He kisses my jaw, then steals a strawberry from the bowl.

“Hey!” I call out, but he’s already halfway down the hall, laughing as he disappears toward the bedroom.

I shake my head, smiling, and get back to breakfast. But he’s gone longer than I expect. By the time I’m pouring the scrambled eggs into a heavily buttered pan, I start to wonder what’s he’s doing.

Then he reappears, fully dressed in jeans and a fitted tee, hair damp from the shower, thick and wild—like the man himself.

“Oh,” I say, glancing at him as I turn the bacon. “I was hoping I could scrub you clean myself after breakfast.”

He laughs, but there’s something slightly off about it. His smile is hesitant, almost nervous. “Yeah, sorry, uh... just wanted to get it out of the way.”

It’s weird. Not a huge deal, but enough to notice. I study him for a beat but decide not to push it.

Instead, I grab another pod and throw it into the machine. A minute later, I slide his coffee across the counter.

The look he gives me.

Fuck.

It’s not about the coffee. It’s about getting this back. It’s about all the mornings that we missed.

“I’ve got the kitchen,” he says after we finish eating. He barely ate. I hope he’s feeling okay. “You shower and get ready,” he says, then grabs a pan from the stove.

I linger a minute, watching him rinse out the pan and hum some tune under his breath. I want to wrap my arms around him and drag him back to bed, but I settle for pressing my lips against the back of his neck and head for the bathroom.

When I come back out, I’m dressed in a pair of Chance’s jeans that sit a little loose on my hips and one of his worn, soft black t-shirts. When I step into the living room, Chance’s eyes track up from my bare feet to my face—and darken.

“I really do like you in my clothes,” he says, low and rough.

I laugh. “I don’t fill these jeans out like you, but they work.”

Chance tilts his head, a slow grin spreading across his face. “You ready?”

“Yep.” I slip on socks and shoes while Chance grabs the leash and clips it to Little G’s collar, scoops up his keys and we head down in the elevator.

The street outside is quiet. Most of the downtown non-retail businesses are closed for the weekend. We stroll toward Paw-Pup Park, Chance’s hand entwined with mine.

The park is bustling with families, couples, and their fur babies.

Little G barrels into the gated area, making fast friends with a border collie and a corgi wearing a bowtie on his collar.

Chance laughs at Little G’s enthusiasm, but there’s a tension in his posture.

He keeps shifting his weight, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, rubbing at the outside of this thighs like something’s crawling under his skin.

We play with Little G and his new friends for an hour. When he looks spent, I leash him again and we make our way out of the park.

When we’re back on the street, I give Chance’s ass a playful smack.

“Gah!” he jumps, startled, and winces.

I freeze. “You good?”

“Yep,” he says quickly, straightening up. “Never better.”

Weird.

Ignoring whatever that was, we start the walk home.

A block later we pass a gelato shop I’ve loved since it opened. I stop, smiling. “Oh, I love this place.” I hand him Guinness’s leash. “Stay here with him. I’ll be right back.”

“We’ll be right here,”

Inside, I greet the girl behind the counter, order a pint of pistachio and a pint of stracciatella and a cup of water for Little G. I think I’ll bring one of his collapsible water bowls to the condo, so we have it here.

It’s a thought that should give me pause, but somehow feels natural. Right.

I exit the shop and hand Chance his pint.

“Pistachio for me,” I say. “Stracciatella for you.”

“Scratch-a-what?” he laughs.

“It’s the Italian version of chocolate chip ice cream, but lighter.”

He shakes his head. I smile and hook my finger through his belt loop.

“Come on.” I drag him to a bench in front of the shop, and we sit close enough that our knees touch.Holding Little G’s water so he can lap it up, I lean to the side, pressing close to Chance.

We trade cups halfway through, sampling each other’s flavors. His eyes dart to mine and then away, fidgeting again.

After the third shift in his seat, I lower my cup. “Alright, what’s going on? Are you okay?”

He turns bright red. “Uh, yeah. I’m great. Everything’s great.”

I narrow my eyes at him, studying him. He laughs nervously and changes the subject.

“Let’s go home and watch movies. Unless you need to be somewhere?”

Home.

Yeah, I like that.

I nod. “I’m exactly where I need to be.”

He stands, offers his hand.

“Come on,” he says.