His thumb brushes along my jaw. “When I say I want you, I mean it. I’m not looking for a temporary fix or someone to pass the time with. I want a lifetime with you. Even if you can only give me a part of you right now, I’ll take it.”
“I want to take care of you,” he murmurs, his forehead resting against mine. “Not just your body… all of you.”
My arms tighten around his neck as I kiss him back, letting myself melt into the warmth he’s offering.
With Cairo, it’s fire—reckless and consuming, the kind of heat that dares me to step closer just to see how badly it can burn. Saint, though, is an anchor, solid and unyielding, drawing me into a world I didn’t think I deserved to belong to.
But sitting there in his arms, I know I can’t keep running from the choice forever.
His fingers trace lazy strokes on my thigh, that sends a flush of heat rushing to the slickness between my legs. “You know… I’d love to see what everyone else got the pleasure of seeing tonight.”
I laugh softly, leaning into him. “You really want me to dance for you?”
“Hell yeah,” he says, grinning, “you know I do.”
“I’m too tired, but soon I promise.” I kick one foot lightly against the floor and raise a brow at him. “I can stay in my heels a little longer for you, but dance? My feet don’t love you like I do.”
He chuckles, kissing the side of my head before pulling back. “Fair enough.” He stretches, running a hand over his hair before heading toward the kitchen. “You hungry?”
I follow him, a small part of me relieved he didn’t say the L-word—like I wouldn’t have known what to do if he had. I really need to stop letting that word fall out of my mouth so easily around them.
“Depends.” I say, tightening my robe around me. “You know how to cook?”
He glances over his shoulder with a half-grin. “A little bit. I ain’t no chef, but I can whip something up for you pretty.”
I bite my lip, thinking it over, before blurting, “Make me an omelet.”
He stops mid-step, eyebrows shooting up. “An omelet? It’s almost midnight?”
I fold my arms, smirking. “Yep. A Denver omelet.”
He shakes his head like I’m impossible, but the grin never leaves his face. “Alright pretty, you got it.”
I perch on a stool at the counter, chin in my hand, and watch him move around his spotless kitchen. He pulls ingredients from the fridge, moving effortlessly from pan topan. I don’t care what he says—he’s absolutely giving chef energy.
And damn, he looks good doing it.
Muscles flexing with every reach, his chain catching the light as he stirs. My stomach growls, and it’s not just from hunger. I can’t even remember the last time I watched a man cook for me. With Saint, even something this simple feels special—letting me see a version of him no one else gets.
A few minutes later, he plates the omelet and walks it over, setting it down in front of me. “Denver, just like you asked,” he says with a playful grin. “Now, if it’s bad, just lie to me. My ego can’t take another hit tonight.”
I shake my head and take my first bite. The savory, rich warmth hits my tongue and my eyes widen. “This is amazing,” I say around a mouthful, half-laughing. “And not just because I haven’t eaten since morning.”
He leans against the counter across from me, arms folded, grinning. “Told you I could whip something up. You just didn’t believe me.”
“I didn’t,” I admit. “You sure did surprise me.”
He nods once, his caramel eyes softening. “Good. I like surprising you.”
I finish the last bite and wipe my mouth with the napkin he slides across the counter.
“Come on pretty,” he says quietly. “You look like you could use some rest.”
Without another word, he leads me toward the stairs. The sound of my heels on the steps echoing as we climb, his hand firmly around mine. He pushes open the door to his bedroom, and I can’t help but take it all in.
An enormous flatscreen TV hangs neatly on the wall opposite the bed, angled perfectly for late-night movies. I can already imagine all the at-home dates we could have.
To the left, double doors open into a walk-in closet big enough for five people, rows of shoes and neatly hung clothes visible from where I stand. Two abstract black-and-white paintings hang side by side above the dresser, their brushstrokes bold and messy against the gold trimming of it all. The details too precise not to notice.
