Page 60 of Raphael

Sailor straightened up, slight embarrassment coloring her cheeks, but she still looked fucking hot. I could only imagine how good she’d look in my bed. Because that was where we were heading.

Of course, she wouldn’t know it until she landed there.

“I told you,” she gritted. “Don’t call me ice queen. Or you won’t like the name I come up with to describe you, fucking diablo.”

I chuckled. Her backbone delighted me. “It means snow queen.”

She blinked in confusion. Then she blinked again. “Why didn’t you correct me the first time?”

I chuckled. “I like rattling you.”

Her brows scrunched. “Why snow queen?”

My eyes traveled over her hair. She raised her hand, self-consciously combing her fingers through it. “I know it’s weird,” she muttered. “People call it gray.”

“It’s fucking gorgeous,” I rasped. The most beautiful sight I had ever seen. “And it certainly isn't gray. It reminds me of a freshly fallen snow with the hint of sun glittering across its surface. I love it.”

Fuck, I might love the way she blushed even more. “Thanks,” she whispered softly.

“I have a gift for you,” I told her casually.

“I’m scared to ask,” she muttered. “There is a devious look in your eyes.” I threw my head back and laughed. Hard. She grinned as if she was pleased by the sound. “Is it the fires of hell? Devil’s pitchfork?” she questioned, though her smile still lingered on her lips.

My lip tipped up. “Not quite.”

“Then, please do tell,” she grumbled.

I pulled out my phone and typed a message to Diego. “You’ll see.”

She glanced around, as if she expected the domain of hell to overtake the kitchen. It was amusing as fuck.

Diego walked in at that moment, cradling a blanket. Without a word he strode toward Sailor who instinctively backed away from him.

“I don’t bite,” he said dryly. “Take him.”

“Him?” she muttered, confusion marring her expression. Her eyes darted my way, then back to Diego.

“Raphael picked him out for you,” Diego explained. Then seeing that Sailor had no intention of extending her arm, he set the package on the table in front of her.

The blanket started moving and a soft squeal escaped Sailor’s lips when a small head pushed through. “What-”

Her voice faltered and she leaned closer. “Is that a-” Those blue eyes raised and met mine. “Is that an animal?”

She swallowed hard, then lowered her gaze. Like she was scared, she reached out her hand and removed the blanked. A little chocolate brown French Bulldog, barely eight-weeks-old peeked his head out. Sailor’s eyes widened and her mouth parted.

“A dog,” she rasped. Her fingers shook as she went to pet him. “It’s a dog,” she repeated in a whisper.

“Yes.”Do you remember?I wanted to ask. During our first dance she told me she wanted a dog.

But it was too soon to bring it up. Instead, I just watched as both the puppy and the woman shook. It would be funny, yet something about it warmed my heart. Yeah, this devil was getting mushy.

The puppy raised to his feet and Sailor instinctively set her arms around him so he wouldn’t fall. He wobbled on his feet, pushing his nuzzle into the palm of her hand.

“Oh my gosh,” she whispered. “It’s a real dog.”

“Would you prefer a fake dog?” Diego, forever grouchy, grumbled.

It didn’t bother Sailor one bit. A wide grin spread on her face. “I like him. He’s so tiny. Is he sick?”