Although when I’m honest…
I hadn’t given it much thought that the kitchen light was on when I walked over, but I should have because the man already standing there freezes me in my tracks and makes my heart race.
Satan, dressed in only sleeping pants, his chiseled chest on full display, a glass of whiskey in his hand. His presence startles me, but I can’t bring myself to turn and walk away.
I’m not backing down from him.
Instead, I continue my quiet approach, my steps nearly soundless on the tiled floor as I make my way to the sink. I grab a glass from one of the cupboards and fill it before turning to him, leaning my hip against the kitchen counter while taking a sip.
He turns and leans against the table with his hip, his gaze locking onto mine.
He’s clearly drunk.
There’s something unsettling in his eyes, not just drunkenness but desire and…
… anger.
As if he’s mad about…wanting me?
But that can’t be right.
His head tilts slightly, and he licks his lips before they turn into a cruel smile. Something about this rough, mocking smile is starting to get to me.
This isn’t good. I need to get back to bed.
I put the glass down, thinking I will put it away tomorrow, and start to walk past him. But he grabs me by my upper arm and spins us so I’m between him and the table. He’s leaning in so the table edge presses into my ass. I’m trapped, pinned by his hold, and unable to tear my gaze away from his intense stare.
His hand reaches out, fingers encircling my throat. The suddenness of it takes me by surprise, and I instinctively grip his wrist with both hands, my heart pounding in my chest. His gaze narrows, and for a moment, he glares at me with aggression that sends a shiver down my spine.
Is he going to hurt me?
Then, just as quickly, his expression shifts. Desire takes over, and he tilts my head up with his thumb, his touch surprisingly gentle. I can’t help but obey as his thumb pushes its way into my mouth. His gaze flicks between my eyes, and after a moment of hesitation, I suck on his thumb.
A low, guttural groan escapes his lips as he closes his eyes and presses his hardness into my stomach. The pure, unadulterated lust on his face as he opens his eyes again ignites an inferno. The pull between us is undeniable, yet it’s mixed with a sense of danger that leaves me breathless.
We stand there, panting, the tension ready to rip, but then something flickers in his eyes, and with sudden force, he lets go of me. Taking the whiskey from the table, he staggers out of the kitchen without uttering a word, leaving me standing there, my heart racing, my body trembling, and my panties wet, wondering what the fuck just happened.
THIRTY-FIVE
The afternoon sunspills across the kitchen counter, casting a warm glow on the flour-dusted surface. Lio’s small hands are dusted white as he giggles, turning the handle of the pasta machine with an infectious eagerness. I stand beside him, guiding his movements as the dough flattens and stretches into perfect sheets.
“Uncle Hunter, look! I’m like the chef on TV!” Lio beams up at me. His smile, missing a front tooth since yesterday, makes him all the more endearing.
“You’re better than a TV chef, bud,” I tell him, ruffling his hair and sending a small cloud of flour into the air.
As we cut the pasta into long, even strands, I teach him how to twirl them into little nests. “You’ve got a knack for this,” I say, and his proud smile tells me I’ve chosen the right words.
We talk about everything and nothing as we work—his toy car that’s working again thanks to Sloan and how excited he is to go whale watching with Nash again soon.
I would love to do this with him, but I will never in a million years set foot on a boat that’s watered again.
“Can we show Daddy how we make pasta?” Lio asks, his hopeful eyes searching mine for confirmation.
If only North could see how much Lio is longing for the appreciation of his daddy.
Who can say no to those big blue eyes?
“Daddy is gonna love your pasta,” I assure him. “He will want to eat it all the time.” Lio’s laughter fills the kitchen, and it’s a sound I vow to hear more often.
