She glances over her shoulder, eyebrow raised. “So you camehometo sulk?”
What in the ever-loving fuck is this? I’m Dimitri, the goddamn mafia killing machine. I don’t do butterflies in the stomach and shit like that. But this woman, she just said “hon” and “home” like we’re some goddamn Brady Bunch, and my heart’s suddenly acting like a pubescent schoolboy. If I wasn’t so goddamn turned on by her, I’d probably break her nose for throwing me off balance.
“I don’t sulk,” I growl, but there’s no real heat in it.
Wren snorts, flipping a sausage. “Right. And I’m not currently frying up a greasy breakfast in your sad excuse for a kitchen.”
I lean against the counter, watching her. The way she moves in my space, it’s… unsettling. “Didn’t know you could cook.”
“I’m full of surprises,” she says dryly. Her eyes flick to the fridge, which I’d stocked before bringing her here. “Though I gotta say, I’m impressed. Didn’t peg you for the grocery shopping type.”
“Don’t usually bother. But you needed food, so…” I shrug. But I’m lying, and she can probably see right through me. The truth is, I like cooking. I like the control. The precision. It’s like being a mob boss but in the kitchen. And I feel a strange satisfaction when my fridge is stocked. Call me crazy, but it’s just one of those things. So, yeah, I’ll lie to Wren about it.
Suka, I like the way she’s in my kitchen.
She turns, hands on her hips. The sight of her in my shirt does something weird to my insides.
“Well, I do,” she snaps. “And I’m going stir-crazy. When can I go back to work?”
“You can’t,” I say flatly.
Her eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Not safe.”
Wren slams the spatula down. “Piss off and die in a ditch, youfuckwad! I have bills to pay, D. My siblings—”
That dirty, sultry voice sends a bolt of electricity straight to my balls when she curses.. Holy fuck, that shit is hotter than a goddamn furnace. Her filthy mouth makes my cock stand at attention, ready to pound that sweet body into submission.
I push the lusty thoughts down, as if stuffing them into a prison cell deep inside my brain.
“Are fine,” I cut her off. “I’ve got people watching them.”
She blinks, surprise replacing anger. “You… sure?”
“Da.” I shift, uncomfortable under her stare. “Made sure they’re taken care of. Food, rent, whatever.”
Wren’s quiet for a long moment. Then, softly, “Well… Thank you.”
The sincerity in her voice makes me squirm. I clear my throat. “Food’s burning.”
“Shit!” She whirls back to the stove.
I watch her scramble to save the egg, something warm and unfamiliar settling in my gut.Blyat. This woman’s got my balls wrapped around her little finger.
And the most fucked up thing? It’s not that she’s in my home, under my roof, in my goddamn space. No, that’s not the worst part. The real mind-fuck is…
I fucking like it.
30
Dimitri
Istare down at the plate, wondering if I’ve stumbled into some kind of culinary crime scene. The sausages look like charred corpses, and the eggs…Blyat! Is that even food anymore? It’s a fucking massacre.
“What the hell is this supposed to be?” I growl, poking at the burned offering with a fork. “Who the fuck taught you to cook?” The words are out before I can stop them, harsh and cutting.
There’s a pause. I look up to see Wren’s face go tight, her eyes darkening. She opens her mouth, then closes it. I don’t need her to say anything. The answer’s written all over her face.
