I’d fucking devour her.
Some guys are all about breasts, some about that ass…others, feet or thighs. I get it. Me? I’m a yes man. Every inch, every curve, every sound.
The way she screams in ecstasy.
That’s what undoes me. For once, she didn’t flinch when I looked at her. She stood there, trusting me, letting meseeher.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor, trying to slow the chaos roaring through me. It’s supposed to be just paperwork. Protection. A name on a certificate to keep her safe. But the second she looked at me tonight—the way she said my name like it meant something—none of that felt true anymore.
A door opens softly behind me. I turn my head. Seraphina steps out in one of my shirts—white, crisp, the sleeves swallowing her hands, the hem brushing the tops of her thighs. Barelegs. Bare feet. Hair loose, now a mass of wild red curls around her shoulders and halfway down her back.
I swear I stop breathing all over again.
She smiles shyly. “I hope you don’t mind. I couldn’t find the pajamas.”
My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to.
This woman…
Bro. I don’t think she’s innocent, she’s after that cock.
Happy to take one for the team, sir.
“You look better in that anyway.” I smile.
Her cheeks flush, and she crosses the room, moving like she’s scared to break the silence between us. I can’t stop watching her. Every step. Every breath. Her fingers twist in the hem of my shirt, the cotton brushing against her bare thighs as I try—and fail—to keep my focus anywhere but there.
I clear my throat, desperate to sound casual.
“You hungry, Dove?”
Because I want to wear you like a fucking scarf. Spread those thighs and feast on your pussy.
She tilts her head, a soft hum leaving her lips.
“A little. I don’t even know what time it is anymore.”
“Late,” I say, dragging a hand though my hair, needing something to do. “But we didn’t eat on the flight. Come on—lets go see what’s in the kitchen. I force a grin and gesture to the hall. She follows me, bare feet on marble, the hem of my shirt swaying with each step in a way that’s going to kill me if I don’t stop watching. I focus on the floor, on the sound of her quiet footsteps behind me, the low hum of the house at night—the distant sound of the city down below, muted by glass and walls.
The kitchen glows softly when we step inside. Cool white counters, dark stone tops, steel appliances gleaming beneath the soft lights. She drifts toward the island, fingertips gliding over the smooth surface like she’s afraid to disturb it. I open a few cupboards, searching aimlessly.
“No idea what’s in, Steak—my, I guess our chef—should have some portioned meals,” I mutter, swinging open the fridge. “Probably something I can’t fuck up too badly.”
When I glance back, she’s perched on one of the bar stools, knees drawn slightly together, the shirt riding high up her thighs as she watches me with a sleepy kind of amusement. The sight hits me low, sharp. I grip the fridge door a little too tightly.
Fuck, I wanna worship at her alter on my fucking knees.
Maybe we could start a new religion?
Her hair falls around her face, a halo of red against the white of my shirt. She looks nothing like the girl who hid in the shadows. She looks curious. Intrigued.
“You don’t really cook much, do you?” she asks, lips curving into a small smile.
“Not unless you count reheating these bad boys.”
“I’m not really in the mood for a whole dinner.”
“I got you.”
