I freeze, then glance back at him.
“I see you, Livvie,” he adds. “All of you.”
His eyes drag down my body, checking out my bare legs, like he’s imagining every reaction he knows he could pull from me if he wanted to.
We stand there, the kitchen quiet except for the occasional hiss of the espresso machine cooling down. He kills the distance, prowling so close that I can smell the mix of fresh coffee and the faintest trace of cologne clinging to his skin.
“If I kissed you again,” he says, “you’d burn for me. And you know it.”
I lift my chin. “You sound awfully sure of yourself.”
His mouth curves, forming a devastating grin. “I’ve had the evidence on my dick, wife.”
The heat rushes to my face, but I refuse to look away.
“You wanted the truth and you got it,” he says. “Can you live with what your father did?”
I hold his gaze, pulse unsteady, and something inside me curls tight with defiance.
“Can you live with whatyoursdid?”
His expression doesn’t change as he crowds my personal space, like he’s crossing into enemy territory even when he shouldn’t.
His fingers brush the inside of my wrist, the contact featherlight, testing if I’ll let him continue.
I don’t move. And that’s all the invitation he needs.
Those wicked fingers of his trail up my forearm, grazing the skin inside my elbow, then continue lower, finding the hem of my T-shirt.
His touch slips beneath the fabric, the warmth of exploration drawing a quiet gasp from deep in my chest. The pads of his fingers skate across my stomach, teasing a line of heat that ignites fire in my veins.
He keeps going, brushing higher until he finds the swell of my breast and the hard peak of my nipple. The slightest flick of his thumb sends sparks dancing along my spine, a whimper escaping my throat before I can trap it.
That little sound has his nostrils flaring. His touch changes, drifting lower now, tracing my belly button maddeningly slow. My body hums, every nerve stretched tight between anticipation and restraint.
When his hand settles between my thighs, just a whisper of pressure on my throbbing clit, I nearly come undone from the promise in that touch alone.
My breath stutters andmy knees threaten to give.
Still, he doesn't push further. He just rests his hand there, the pressure warm, steady, electric.
I meet his gaze, and what I find there isn’t hunger. It’s control. He’s doing this to show me just how much I’ve already given away without even realizing it.
I shouldn’t want this. Not when he knows secrets that could destroy my family and bring me down with them.
However, my body is already betraying me, hips tilting slightly into the pressure, breath coming faster even though I tell myself to stay still.
Kingston leans in, his lips grazing the shell of my ear, his voice a thick whisper that tingles down my spine like warm rain. “Do you think your cum would taste like my morning espresso?” he asks, so quietly I almost think I imagined it. “Or better?”
A wave of heat crashes over me so fast I nearly sway. My breath stutters, my pulse pounds, but I keep my chin high and my smirk sweet.
Two can play this game.
I lean in, my lips hovering near his, close enough that he can taste the boldness beneath the sugar.
“If you’re so curious,” I purr, “I’ve been told I taste like a smooth caramel latte. Candied. Rich. Addictive.”
His eyes darken, the muscle in his jaw flexing hard.
