Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
How can someone be both irritated and giddy at the same time, because I’m pretty sure I’m both of those things. It’s like he’s telling me what I didn’t know I needed to hear but the part of me that forever pales in comparison is refusing to accept his words at face value.
He explained a little before but it’s like he thinks telling me this is a basic admission, when it’s an all-access pass.
This man I thought I was selling myself to wasn’t just a potential buyer I tracked down, but rather a man on the hunt with one particular prey in mind.
Me.
At my prolonged silence, he looks up, tipping his head slightly. “What?”
“You’re telling the truth, aren’t you?”
“You doubt my fixation?” he questions with a hint of humor, unaware of where my mind had taken me. “I am completely obsessed with you, Little Bride, and now that I know what you look like taking my cock, sound like when taking my cock, smell like when—”
“Okay.” I laugh, watching as he grabs a tray stacked with small containers and brings it over to the space beside the stove. “I get it. Me, plus your cock, equals a pleased Enzo.”
Enzo chuckles, turning a knob, and I frown when fire sparks to life along the stove.
His eyes flick up to mine, and the delight in his gaze doubles. “Never seen a stove before?”
I don’t feel like admitting I’ve never actually touched one, though I’m sure he assumes as much. Daughters of rich, prestigious criminals don’t typically have to get their hands dirty.
Well, with a literal home mess. With blood or filthy scheming? Couple times a day on a good day.
“Never expected you to know your way around one, that’s for sure.”
His grin widens and I can’t handle it. I have to look away, instead focusing on his hands as he speaks. “You do remember I was poor as a kid? Didn’t even have a working stove most my life.”
I prop my chin on my palm. “I guess I forget that. You don’t carry yourself like—”
“Like a kid from the gutter?” he teases himself. “You might also forget most of my teenage years were spent in juvenile hall. Not much to do there but educate myself or fuck up even more. I knew what I wanted when I was finally free to make it happen, so I chose the first. Sometimes all I could get my hands on were encyclopedias or dictionaries.”
“You would read the dictionary?”
“If it was all I could get, yes.”
“No wonder you find my kind of books fascinating,” I tease.
He tosses his head back, letting out a full belly laugh, and goddamn it, mine does a little flip.
Enzo sets a small pot on the stove, and I watch as he begins melting a chunk of butter, swiftly adding a mini mountain of sugar.
“So, if you didn’t have a stove most of your life, how did you learn your way around one?”
He’s quiet a moment before answering. “I earned kitchen duty my last two years of lockup, but admittedly there wasn’t much time around the stove.” He looks up briefly. “Couldn’t have us trying to burn the place down or sticking each other’s heads in the fire.”
“Fair.”
Enzo smiles, focus returning to his task at hand. “Come here, baby.”
I hesitate at first, continuing to watch as he grabs a metal hand tool that resembles the scalp treatment massager my old masseuse would use, and then go to him.
Instantly, he hauls me before him, blanketing my back with his chest and leaning over, taking a moment to simply brush his cheek along mine. It’s an intimate move, but I don’t pull away, instead embracing this unexpected time together.
“Take the whisk,” he whispers, his fingers sliding along my forearm until they’re wrapping around my own. “Just like that. Now, roll your wrist in a small circle.”
As he instructs, he shows me what he means, and I can’t help the sigh that escapes, settling into the warmth of his body.
“You enjoy being close to me,” he rasps.
It’s not a question, yet still I answer with a small shrug he feels more than sees. “I’ve…never had this sort of attention. It’s different than I’m used to.”
“It’s different because I feel for you.” His admission makes my throat run dry. “But you like this…”
This time, it’s less a statement, and a small smile graces my lips. “I don’t hate it.”
His hand drops from around me and I jump, laughing when he tickles my sides, spinning and inadvertently pressing my chest to his.
Sharp, deep hazel eyes lock onto mine, and the moment slows as he reaches up, pulling my hair forward, something he seems to do every time he’s close. “You’re a brat, Mrs. Fikile.”
Mrs. Fikile.
This man, he’s not just someone in my life here and now. We’re married.