Page 57 of The Crowned Garza

This asshole just thinks he knows everything, doesn’t he? “You like kissing and getting hard for this ‘brat,’ though.”

“Moments of weakness.”

“Can you have another moment of weakness with me right now?” I ask. “Please?”

“What do you want?”

“Your lips.”

“Take them.”

Afraid he’s just messing with me and plans to dodge, I don’t waste a second. I grip his suspenders, rise up on my toes, and kiss those beautiful lips like they’re the secret to immortality. And hell if this doesn’t feel like a love song, strumming all the erogenous cords of my body. Like a glass of fine wine at the end of a long day, filling me with blissful headiness.

He lets me lead the kiss, responding to my prompts and feeding my demands. Let me take and take until I’m filled to the brim, overflowing and out of breath.

Slowly, reluctantly, for the sake of oxygen, I part my lips from his.

The self-satisfied smile that settles on my face can’t be helped.

Maybe he’s right and I just like to win.

Saint traces his thumb around the curve of my lips, his heated gaze roaming my face. “Mia piccola regina…” he whispers. “You are…divinity.”

Warmth floods me. “Will you worship at my altar, then?”

“It’s not me,regalità.I’m not the man. Not for you.” He tenderly drags his fingertips down my neck. “Stick with the Wills and Doms of this world who worship the ground you walk on.”

“I change my mind. Don’t worship me, debase me. Defile me.”

“Blasphemy.”

“What if—ahh-eek!”

I’m swept off my feet and up into his arms. “Enough.” He carries me back to the kitchen and deposits me on one of the stools. “Let’s eat.”

“I’ll let you shut me up just this once,” I say, as if I have any control here. “Only because I’m hungry.”

“God bless,” he mutters and I stifle a giggle. He’s such a dick.

I kick back and watch him move about my kitchen with ease and familiarity. Not the least bit self-conscious that my eyes are glued to him.

Maybe helikesbeing the center of my attention.Why else would he show up here unprovoked, cooking for me? I don’t understand him. At all.

Dinner is served a few minutes later. Pan-seared scallops with lemon-garlic-spinach linguine and a side of zesty garden salad.

“I think you missed your true calling,” I mumble around a mouthful of ineffable deliciousness.

“Not at all.” He pierces a scallop. “Tell me about your day.”

High off a good day, off the kiss, off this meal, off his presence, I tell him about my day. Being around him gives me a kind of familiar comfort impossible to explain, and so here I am, chatting my head off the way I would with Sunny.

When there’s a lull and my eyes start wandering over him with lust, he asks me questions to keep me talking. Although I’m aware it’s to keep me from bringing things back to the “us” that doesn’t exist, I let him control the topics of conversation. As long as he’s here with me.

When we’re done eating, we clean up and load the dishwasher together.

“Good?” he asks me afterward, unfolding his sleeves.

My attention is glued to the act. Until I realize it means he’s about to leave.