Page 33 of The Sinner's Sanctuary

“We’ll see how the day goes,” he says easily. “Nutella croissant?”

“Please. Shall we take it on the terrace?”

“Sure.”

We turn at the same time. He has a plate in one hand, his coffee in the other. I have a hand free, and I brush my thumb across his lower lip before I can stop myself. His pupils dilate.

“I apologize,” I say. “Again.”

“Don’t,” he says. “I bruise easy.”

Do not fucking get hard, I tell my dick as it throbs with a threat. “I was too aggressive.”

“Did it seem like I minded?”

“You were drunk.”

“So were you.”

“Fine,” I drop my hand and walk past him to get the terrace door. “I take it back. I’m not sorry.”

“Good.”

The sun is bright on the patio, and I open the umbrella over the table. The piazza below is already bustling with people and pigeons.

“These were on the counter this morning. Did you put them out?”

“No. The staff does.”

“They sneak in, drop off food, and leave?”

“They also empty the trash.”

“Wow. Did you always know you were gonna be this rich?”

“It’s safe to say I’ve exceeded my goals.”

“Where else do you have homes?” he asks as he spreads a healthy portion of Nutella onto a flaky croissant.

I make myself swallow, but my mouth is suddenly dry because I just pictured myself licking Nutella off his tongue, and that doesn’t seem right.

“Um. LA. London. The Hamptons?—”

“Obviously.”

“Palm Beach,” I go on. “And there’s the yacht. Marianne has a place in Quebec.”

“That’s it?” he asks, his tone teasing.

“For now.”

“Where do you keep the yacht?”

“The Hamptons.”

“Do you have a favorite?”

“I like the house in Palm Beach,” I tell him.

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