Page 89 of Ruthless Reign

He’s leaving out details, but I can read between the lines. My stomach drops to my toes, and my palms go clammy.

“What a horrible thing to go through at any age, but at fifteen, you were just a kid.” I lean my head against his hard chest. “I’m so sorry. It must be hard for you to be here.”

He releases a bitter laugh. “Something like that.”

I cup his face with my palms. “Look how far you’ve come despite everything.”

“I run a crime syndicate; I’m not Mother Theresa.” He cracks a smile. “I’m hoping we’ll make some new memories together to erase the old ones.”

His steady gaze sends a rush of nerves throughout my body.

I reach up on my tiptoes and drop a kiss onto his lips. “Whatever you need, I’m here.”

“All I need is you, milaya.”

He sweeps my hair aside and plants kisses along my throat, trailing downward slowly. I tilt my head to give him access, and a moan slips through my lips.

From the back of my mind, a voice reminds me that I can’t be his, but I ignore it. That voice isn’t welcome here.

“You have me.” I turn my head to brush my lips against his.

The kiss starts slow but soon deepens. Every stroke of his tongue against mine sends a flurry of shivers down my spine.

Breathing heavily, he pulls away, his eyes still at half-mast. “If we keep going, I’m going to fuck you here on this table, and that’s not what I had in mind for tonight. I can’t just fuck you on the first available surface. You deserve better than that.”

“I have no problem with where you fuck me, just that you do.”

He releases a breath in a long, slow hiss. “At least let me feed you first.”

Roman claims he can cook, and considering there’s no hope in hell for me in the kitchen, I’m happy to let him try.

“In that case, I’ll go upstairs and unpack.”

He crosses his arms in front of his hard chest. He’s wearing a V-neck Henley, his tattoos peeking out the collar, and my throat immediately goes dry.

“No, you won’t. Stay here. I need a sous chef.”

I wrinkle my nose. “My cooking skills are pathetic.”

He smirks. “I’ll put you to good use.”

He throws an apron my way, and I tie it around my waist.

“We’re having wild mushroom pappardelle. Good with you?”

“Good with me.” I shrug and reach for the glass of wine I poured earlier.

“You can start by cleaning and slicing the mushrooms.” Roman hands me a clean kitchen towel and lays a paring knife on the counter.

“I think I can manage that.” I turn my attention to the array of mushrooms before me.

“Gently wipe the mushrooms with the towel. They don’t need to be cleaned in water,” Roman instructs.

“Yes, sir. I’m impressed you cook for yourself,” I admit, considering he can afford an army of private chefs.

He looks up from where he’s started to boil water for pasta and gives me a smile. “In the name of full disclosure, I don’t cook for myself very often. And I do have a cook—she taught me this recipe.”

“To impress the ladies,” I tease, even though it causes a little pang of jealousy to bubble up.

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