We grab burgers from a spot a block down from the Rialto. It’s low stakes and casual, with burgers that arrive in greasy wax paper and a huge container of fries that even Killian doesn’t finish.
He talks about how he’s already started training for his championship match against Ivan Sharapova and absolutely should not be having things like greasy cheeseburgers and salted fries.
“But here I am,” he says, taking a large bite of his burger.
I let out a small laugh. “You’ve never been one to follow the rules so it doesn’t surprise me.”
Killian mentions how he wants to do right by me and take me out somewhere nice. Something upscale that feels like a proper date, as he calls it.
I vehemently shake my head and say, “Please don’t. You know how I feel about places like that. I’d rather you cook for me at home.”
“Don’t be surprised if that’s what happens then. The kitchen might be charred, but I’ll cook you your meal.”
We’re teasing each other as we finish up our burgers and fries and head down the street to the old-time movie theater. I walk beside Killian with my arm wrapped around his.
We feel like a normal couple. Anyone else off the street who lives a normal life.
During these moments, things like the Bratva or the guilt that gnaws away at me cease to exist.
We select a movie that’s a lot less tense and dramatic thanDog Day Afternoon, settling onRoman Holidaywith Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck. Not the type of movie Killiannormally opts to see, but he aims a vague smile at me and says it’s time to switch it up.
We’re the only two in the theater, though that’s no surprise.
Killian’s arm is draped around my shoulder as a large bucket of popcorn sits between us and we watch the black-and-white movie.
On screen, Audrey Hepburn is getting her hair cut by an Italian stylist.
In our seats, Killian’s and my hands have started to wander. His slides from my shoulder down to my thigh where he traces idle patterns into my skin.
I tilt my head up to look at him and find his gaze already on me in the dim glow of the projector. His deep blue eyes hold the same spark of desire I’ve started to recognize.
I kiss him first. My lips press to his as I lean over and forget about the movie.
Things turn heated fast. He grabs me by the hips and drags me even closer ’til we’re forced to put up the arm rest and I’m practically in his lap.
His tongue slides against mine, and soon we’re making out unabashedly in the middle of the theater.
Normally, I’d care. I’m not the type to do anything in public but cling to the walls. Definitely not the kind of woman who’s ever been into public displays of affection (though no man I’ve ever been with has brought me out in public anyway).
But with Killian, I find myself not giving a damn. I’m into it as his hands canvas my body and slip under my T-shirt, and I moan against his lips.
His hands on me feel soright. They’re warm and calloused and heavy, so large he can easily cup my breast in his palm.
I draw a sharp breath as he does just that, his palmnudging aside a bra cup and fondling the small mound of flesh.
“I love that sound,” he groans. “When you take in air like that… like you’ve been shocked.”
“It’s what it feels like,” I answer him, pressing a kiss to his lips. “When you touch me.”
“Good touch or bad?” he asks.
A question that’s become our own inside joke as we’ve gotten to know each other.
I release a little giggle and then pull back to stroke his bearded jaw and look him in the eye.
“Very, very good,” I answer. Then my hand drops to the crotch of his jeans where a noticeable bulge has appeared. I give him a squeeze and return to his mouth for another kiss. “Speaking of touch… there’s somewhere else I had in mind.”
His brow creases in question, curiosity flickering in his gaze. But I’ve already slid off his lap and dropped to my knees. It dawns on him where this is going as I unbuckle his jeans and drag down the zipper. His hand covers mine to pry it away.
