Still sweet on my tongue from when I kissed her, tasted her sweet lips. It’s sharp and addictive, still clinging to my taste buds like something forbidden I’d sell my soul to have again. Every second since, my mind has played the whole scene over and over. The way her breath stuttered when she came for me, her eyes going soft and wild, her nails digging into my skin like I was the only thing anchoring her to this world.
I should feel like a fucking bastard. And I do.
But it doesn’t matter.
Not when all I can think about is how much I want her again. How every woman before her suddenly feels like practice for this moment, like I’ve been starving my whole life without knowing it until now.
She hasn’t come out of her room yet. I keep glancing at her door, counting the minutes. I want to see her, touch her, makesure she’s real. I want to know if she regrets what happened between us. If she’s scared of me now. If she wants more. I’m not sure what I’d do if she looked at me with regret, if she told me it was all a mistake.
I’d probably lose it.
Hurt someone.
Break something.
Hell, probably myself before anyone else.
Room service arrives with two silver trays, linen napkins, the whole nine yards. I sign for it, tip the guy, and start uncovering the plates. My jaw tightens when I see it: a bowl of dry fruit, two hard-boiled eggs, black coffee, and a note in Malinda Ashford’s perfect, looping script.
Remember, Ivory, discipline is beauty. No sweets, no carbs. You know what’s expected. Don’t embarrass us tonight.
My fists curl so tight the note crumples in my grip. My vision blurs red at the edges. I want to storm down to her parents’ suite and shove this note down her mom’s throat. The idea of anyone, especially Ivory’s own mother, making her feel small, less than, and unworthy makes me want to tear the world apart. She’s perfect as she is. God, she’s more than perfect. She’s fucking radiant.
I check the other trays, hoping for something better.
Nope.
There’s a normal breakfast for me: eggs, bacon, and a pile of toast. Guilt twists in my gut. I swap one of my plates with hers, piling extra bacon onto her tray, and drowning the dry eggs in butter. If she wants fruit, fine, but she’s eating real food this morning, even if I have to force-feed her myself.
I toss the note in the trash. Out of sight, out of mind.
I’m sitting at the table, my coffee already getting cold, when I hear her door creak open. My heart lodges somewhere in my throat, preparing for the worst.
She steps out, blinking and looking hot as hell with her hair stuck to her head, tangled and messy, skin glowing. She’s wearing a pair of tiny cotton shorts and a tank top. My mouth is already watering at the visible evidence that she’s not wearing a bra. My cock twitches, hard and hot in my jeans at the sight of her perky little nipples straining against the thin fabric of her top.
I have to bite down on a groan, fighting for control.
“Morning,” I manage, voice rougher than it should be.
She blushes, tugging at the hem of her shorts like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me, but she doesn’t. She couldn’t. Not really.
“Morning.” Her voice is shy, soft, but there’s a new boldness in her eyes. It hits me in the gut, makes my pulse kick up.
I gesture to the food. “Eat up. You’re not surviving the day on rabbit food.”
She glances at the tray, then at me, confusion flickering across her face. “My mom?—”
I cut her off. “Your mom can go to hell. You need real food.” My voice is sharp, but she doesn’t flinch. She gives me a tiny smile, but it’s real, and sits across from me, tucking a leg under herself.
We eat in silence for a few minutes, but all I can think about is how gorgeous she looks, hair messy from sleep, skin bare except for the tank top and shorts. I force down a bite of dry toast, trying not to stare, but every time she shifts, the hem rides higher, and I can’t stop the dirty thoughts running through my head.
She catches me looking. Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t look away. She sets down her fork, fidgeting. “Can I… talk to you about last night?”
My chest goes tight. “Of course.”
She bites her lip, picking at the edge of her napkin. “I’ve never done anything like that before. I just… I wanted to thank you.”
God, she’s so wholesomely perfect it almost hurts. “You don’t have to thank me, Ivory.”
