Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 23250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
When Nero arrives back in front of me, his dark stare latches onto mine, sincerity swirling around relentlessly. “All of my fucking apologies, Elle.”
“Accidents happen.” Lowering the ice pack, I shrug. “It was my fault anyway.”
His index finger pumps twice informing me to return the aid back to where it was on my forehead. “What were you thinking?”
“Oh…um,” I murmur under my breath, reality flooding in.
I was thinking that I could make you feel something real for me.
I was thinking that I could show you what a keeper I really fucking am.
I was thinking that I could prove to you why I’m worth being married to on more than paper.
Realizing how desperate all of those answers are, I simply pull my lips to one side of my face to plead the 5th.
Better to say nothing than look like the lovesick teenage girl I’m feeling like.
Displeasure returns swiftly to Nero’s face. “You’re not going to answer me?”
“How about I cook for you instead?”
“What?”
“Breakfast.”
“That’s a meal, yes.”
“I was thinking I could cook that for you.”
“That’s what the kitchen staff is for. They cleared out when I brought you in; however, that doesn’t negate their duties for the morning.”
“Can it?”
My suggestion furrows his brow.
“I wanna make a meal for you. For us.”
“I’m calling Mickie back in here.”
“Why?”
“To have him take us to the hospital where Hans will meet us.”
“Why?!”
“You’re clearly concussed.”
“Because I wanna cook for my husband?!”
The passion of the word stuns us both.
Geez, how is it that one word has begun to feel more real than it truly has any business feeling?
Softness returns to Nero’s loving gaze in such a way I think he may be experiencing the same emotions that I am.
“Okay,” his arms fall to allow his hands to tuck themselves into the pockets of his red silk pajama bottoms, “you can cook for me, for us, after you take a pain killer and tell me why you were on your knees trying to suck my toes instead of my cock.”
Embarrassment heats my cheeks to epic portions.
Nero kicks his chin to the bottle left behind. “Pain killer first.”
I reluctantly cast aside the icepack, pop one of the pills into my mouth, and swallow it down with the glass of water given to me upon us first entering the room.
“Now, explain.”
“Nero-”
“You trust me?”
“Of course,” the words thoughtlessly leap from my tongue.
“Then trust me to handle your explanation for what the fuck went down in our bedroom this morning.”
Between the love in his voice and the choice to use the word “ours” rather than “his”, I cave to request on a dramatic shoulder sag. “I was trying to show you that I can do shit in the bedroom too! That I’m not afraid to please you in other ways. That I can give just as good as I can take…You know…if I know how to give, which I don’t really because I’m not sure what you like or don’t or prefer or wish I did or-”
“Twinkle Toes,” he warmly calls out ceasing my rambles, “You don’t have to do kinky shit for me. I love being the one to do shit to you. I love being the one that makes you fucking come. I love being the one to discover new shit you like. And most importantly, I love being the only one you let do that shit for you.”
Okay, he said love like seven times or some shit.
Does he…possibly…love me, or am I reading too much into this?
“For the record, I don’t like foot things done to me. Never have. I commend you for trying.”
The corner of my lip tries to curl upward.
“However, I will say this. I don’t mind a morning choke on my balls. That shit always makes me wanna bust right on your chin so I can watch it drop down to those perfect tits of yours.”
Shock and awe alike send my jaw to my lap.
“So, tell me, Mrs. DeLuca,” he saunters a little closer, “what is it you’re cooking for us?”
“Your favorite.”
“You know what that is?”
“Frittatas.”
It’s his turn to look surprised and impressed.
“I listen, Mr. DeLuca.”
“I see that.” He flashes me a small smirk. “Tell me how I can help.”
After giving Nero a sweet smile in return, I rise to my feet to begin delivering instructions. We work in tandem around the luxurious kitchen, grabbing mixing bowls, cooking utensils, pots, pans, and ingredients. Laughs are shared as he pokes fun at me for preferring my toast with “the white crap sprinkled on it” while I tease him for his bougie choice in eating expensive eggs. We each share the reasoning behind our respective favorites. The fact that they’re both family-related seems to connect us on a deeper level.
He cracks eggs with ease in between telling me about his mother and his non-DeLuca grandmother, both of which drilled into him the importance of family and treasuring it.