Page 128 of Joker in the Pack

Christmas, my birthday, Easter, Valentine’s, Hanukkah, Thanksgiving, but definitely not Independence Day. I didn’t want to be alone anymore.

Nye peeled off the condom and dropped it onto the floor—something else to clean up later.

Dammit, Olivia, stop with the OCD.

The only thing I should be cleaning was Nye, with my tongue. So I did, and I discovered my new favourite thing to eat.

Better even than chocolate. I gave it one last lick. Maybe next time I could mix the two: Nye and chocolate. Who needed three Michelin stars when you had that combination?

“What are you thinking, babe?”

I felt heat rise in my cheeks, and he laughed.

“That bad?” he asked.

“I’m beginning to see the merits in a little naughtiness.”

“With you on that.”

Chocolate sauce was definitely going on the shopping list for tomorrow, and maybe some whipped cream. I could get a piping bag and…

Nye went at me again with his tongue, and this time I managed to gasp his name. Before I could blink, all other thoughts flew from my mind.

What did I need them for, anyway?

All that mattered tonight was us.

CHAPTER 37

DESPITE A BURNING curiosity about my new surroundings, and even more interest in the contents of the safe deposit box, I was almost grateful the next day was Sunday because I needed a rest. By the time morning rolled around, I could barely walk.

Nye had no such problems. “You up for another round?” he asked as the early afternoon sun glinted through the gap in the curtains.

I couldn’t move, and I mumbled as much into the pillow.

“How about I just roll you over and make you happy?”

That did it. I was in love with this man.

As he started work, I went beyond happy, further even than delirious. Nye had invested in gold-standard equipment and was clearly familiar with the operating manual. He certainly knew how to push my buttons.

“Hungry, babe?” he asked as I collapsed back onto the mattress.

I slid my jaw from side to side, testing it. “Muscles I didn’t know I had are aching.”

He laughed. “I meant for food.”

“Oh. Yes, some food would be lovely.”

Except there was a slight flaw in that plan, because when we staggered through to Nye’s kitchen, he didn’t have any.

“I’ve got Kit Kats, Rice Krispies, and a microwaveable cheese toastie,” he called out, rummaging through his cupboards. “Actually, the Rice Krispies aren’t so crispy anymore.”

“What about proper food?”

With that many preservatives in his system, an archaeologist could dig Nye up in a few hundred years’ time and find a perfectly lifelike corpse.

I opened the fridge and found five cans of beer, a bottle of ketchup, and a jar of pickles that had expired two years previously. A foil container lurked in one corner, and I didn’t even want to think about what horrors it might harbour. It went straight into the bin.

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