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As funny as that is, I think he’s minimizing their connection. There’s no denying those two are disgustingly in love, heavy emphasis on disgusting. They were practically slurping food out of each other’s mouths during dinner.
“I hope you’re right.”
“You got nothing to worry about. He doesn’t know about us.”
That may not be the problem between Khaos and Graham, but there is still a problem.
I decide to drop it. For now.
“I’ll help you clean up if you read.”
Stacking dishes, he says, “Your ass is helping regardless. Part of this mess is yours.”
“Most of it’s our parents’ and I don’t see them helping.”
“Yeah, well, they know they don’t have to as long as there’s someone else to clean up after them.”
With a deep frown, he pauses, his hands full of dirty plates.
It’s a bit odd to group his father in that statement considering he hasn’t been in this lifestyle for very long, but I guess that’s the influence my mother has.
After a sigh, I start collecting glasses.
When Khaos still hasn’t moved, I suggest, “If you want to take those into the kitchen, I’ll get the rest.”
That seems to pierce his reverie, spurring him into action once again.
Together, we get everything either hand-washed or into the dishwasher before heading upstairs, only parting ways at Khaos’s bathroom so we can each get ready on our own.
Dressed in my navy, satin-and-lace pajama set, I’m sprawled across my bed, one hand cuddling Onyx, the other holding our current read, when I hear Khaos quietly close and lock my door.
Onyx disappears from my grip.
“Thanks for keeping watch, but I get her from here,” is followed by the soft thud of Onyx landing on the floor.
Next, the paperback is plucked from my grip with a growled, “You better not have read ahead.”
I can’t help the cheesy grin overtaking my face. I didn’t believe big, bad Khaos would actually read the books I recommended him, but to my immense surprise, not only is he reading them, he’s loving them. He has his book that he reads on his own. I have mine. Then we have this one that we’re reading together.
I peek up at him through my lashes and tease, “And what if I did?”
“You’ll get punished.”
The only kind of punishment I can think of involves my ass, so I flip over to my back, keeping that out of reach.
“Punished how?”
“I won’t do the next spice scene with you.”
We hold each other’s stares until I shrug and say, “That sounds like more punishment for you.”
His eyebrows sink. “You don’t like sex with me?”
“No.”
Nothing on him changes.
He pulled the same thing on me. How does he not recognize it?
