The man I swore to hate, who kissed me like I was actually his, suddenly appears less like the gangster I imagined him to be.
In a weird twist of reality, he might actually be more trustworthy than the darkness I was born into.
Although it would be easier if he was a monster. Because being around him has switched up my emotions and played havoc with my libido.
Deep down, I know this marriage of ours will end in divorce or a burial.
There’s no happily ever after for the two of us.
By the time the peachy blush of sun warms the city skyline, I’m rolling off a bloodred chaise lounge, leaving my music room behind and padding toward the aroma of coffee.
I make my way through the quiet penthouse, barefoot and dressed in the same baggy T-shirt I’d taken from his closet when I first arrived.
It’s super comfy, that’s all. That’s what I tell myself each time I pull it over my head.
When I reach the kitchen, the sight I find is fucking criminal for this early hour.
Christ, I married a god.
Kingston stands at the marble counter, bare-chested and infuriatingly composed, as if he doesn’t notice the morning light highlighting every abdomen dip of a masterpiece designed to ruin women’s morals.
Moisture glistens on muscles sculpted and defined, his build earned through regimental discipline and constant danger.
A black towel hangs around his neck, damp where it clings to the curve of his collarbone.
He’s wearing low-slung black athletic shorts that ride the line between comfort and sin, resting just below the cut of his hips.
A black cap sits backward on his head, pushing dark hairaway from his handsome face, a few strands poking out at his temple.
But it’s his tanned arms that nearly undo me.
They flex with every movement as he works the coffee machine, ink spreading along his skin. Black-and-gray tattoos climb from his wrists to his elbows, disappearing beneath the towel like secrets I’m not allowed to know.
One piece catches the light just enough for me to make it out. A snake winding through roses. Beautiful. Dangerous. Just like him.
He doesn’t look at me when I wander deeper into the room and stop at the counter beside him.
“Hey,” I say, doing my best not to stare at his chest.
Kingston pulls a second espresso shot, eyes fixed on the crema.
I lean against the island, folding my arms, letting the silence stretch.
“Ah, the silent treatment.” I flick my hair over my shoulder. “Are we married or in high school?”
Rather than take the bait, he picks up the tiny cup and takes a slow sip, the towel slipping slightly across his shoulder.
I straighten. “So that’s it? We kissed and almost set the room on fire, then you tell me my father is the devil, and now I get an ice wall?”
His eyes flick toward me, just for a second, then back to the counter.
“Just enjoying my morning routine,” he says, voice husky like he hasn’t used it yet this morning.
“Yeah… whatever. Move over and let me make myself an espresso.”
I expect him to ignore me again. Or step aside with that infuriating indifference he’s been wearing like armor since last night.
Instead, without a word, Kingston reaches for a second cup, resets the portafilter, measuring out the grind and tamping it down with quiet precision.
