Page 50 of Sinful Sacrifice

“You could move in with me.”

I gulp to stop myself from spitting out my coffee.

A heads-up that he’s offering batshit crazy ideas would’ve been nice.

The urge to laugh hits me, but I don’t because when his eyes meet mine, there’s no humor in them. He’s serious.

I raise my cup in a hold it, mister gesture. “We’ve had one official date. If we’re counting in terms of steps, we need about fifty more of”—I pause to gesture back and forth between us—“this before even thinking about living together.”

I worked my ass off to move into this apartment, and it wasn’t easy to find. I won’t give it up for a short-term relationship.

“I’m not a fan of steps.” He leans forward, his six-pack pressing against my feet, and snatches his cup.

“Steps give you exercise.” I smirk as he makes himself comfortable again. “Cardio. A great ass.”

“Use me as your exercise.” He takes a sip of coffee, staring at me in question over the rim.

“You’re a busy man.”

“Never too busy for you.”

While I try to turn the conversation playful, he’s still serious.

Like he’s laying out the perfect business deal in a board meeting.

“Your building also has shitty security,” he continues. “You’re not protected here.”

I frown. “I don’t need security. I’ve lived here for over a year without one problem.”

“You absolutely need security.”

“Why?”

“Because of your relation to your uncle.” He drums his fingers against the Styrofoam cup before settling it on the table. He tips his head back and cracks his neck.

The mention of Cernach gives me a sudden chill, and I wrap my arms around myself. “My uncle doesn’t exist in my life.”

“Maybe he didn’t before, but he sure does now.” He massages my feet, causing me to squirm, and lowers his voice. “We could have him draft a contract, see what he wants.”

The mood of the morning has shifted. We woke up and had morning sex, and he showered before leaving for coffee. All was good in the Damien and Pippa world, but now, he wants to talk Cernach and contracts?

“What sort of contract?” I hate that I already know the answer.

“An arranged marriage contract.” He shrugs as if his suggestion wouldn’t be completely life-changing.

My head spins as I furiously shake it. “Arranged marriages aren’t for me.”

“What is for you then, Pippa?” His eyes stay pinned on me as he kneads his knuckle into my heel.

“I’d need a year of dating minimum before I ever considered accepting a marriage proposal.”

And that marriage proposal had better not be anything Cernach-involved. Otherwise, I wouldn’t care if it’d been a decade. It’d be an automatic no.

He opens his mouth, but I continue speaking. “I’d also need a hundred-word essay on what kind of husband he’d be.”

Marrying me won’t be easy.

Unlike my mother, I won’t elope in Vegas.

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