I shrug, turning back to my eggs, which are starting to cook at the edges. I need a distraction. Anything than thoughts of me running my hands along those muscles. “It wasn’t a priority at the time.”
“What was the priority, then?”
The question hangs between us. I focus on folding my omelet, buying time.
“Figuring out what I’d gotten myself into,” I finally answer, aiming for honesty without revealing too much. “Understanding what you wanted from me. No one throws three hundred grand without asking for something in return, not even billionaires.”
“And have you figured it out?”
I slide the omelet onto a plate and turn to face him. “Not entirely.”
Ronan moves closer, reaching past me to open a drawer. His arm brushes mine, sending electricity skating across my skin. He’sclose enough that I can smell him—clean soap, a hint of mint, and something darker, richer. Heat radiates from his body, and I instinctively rub my thighs together, seeking friction, desperate for him to relieve the terrible, empty ache within me.
God, how did I end up like this? It’s like I’m one accidental touch away from begging him to take me.
“Silverware,” he explains, holding up a fork. Our fingers brush as he hands it to me, and I swear I feel the contact all the way to my toes.
“Thanks.” My voice sounds breathless even to my own ears. “Did I wake you?”
“I wasn’t asleep.”
“Working?”
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Thinking.”
“About?”
“You.”
The single word sends a rush of heat through me. He says it so simply, so matter-of-factly, as if admitting he was lying awake thinking about a woman he just met is the most natural thing in the world.
I take a bite of my omelet to hide my reaction, but it's a mistake. Now I have to swallow past the tightness in my throat. Ronan watches me eat with unnerving intensity.
“Good?” he asks.
I nod. “Would you like some?”
“I’ll make my own.” He moves to the refrigerator, and I can’t help but watch the play of muscles across his back as he reaches for eggs and vegetables.
Looking this hot should be a crime. Being this hot and rich, though? The world really isn’t fair.
The kitchen isn’t small by any means, but with Ronan in it, the space feels intimate, almost confined. We move around each other in a strange dance, his body sometimes coming close enough that I can feel the heat of him, but never quite touching.
I try to ignore the disappointment.
“You cook,” I say as he expertly cracks eggs into a bowl.
“You sound surprised. It’s not like I’m making filet mignon.”
“Most billionaires don’t make their own omelets at” —I glance at the clock on the microwave— “two in the morning.”
“Most billionaires didn’t grow up like I did, and like I said, it’s just an omelet.”
There’s a story there, but he doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t press. Instead, I watch his hands as he works—strong, capable hands. An unbidden image slips into my mind. An image of those same hands exploring every inch of my body, running along my thighs, dipping inside?—
Stop it, Rayne. Stop! Remember why you're here in the first place.
“What’s that one mean?” I ask, nodding toward a tattoo on his shoulder blade—an intricate geometric design surrounding what looks like a date in Roman numerals.
