Page 103 of Legacy of Chaos

She’d taught him, all right. He was a quick, eager student too. He was a practice-makes-perfect kind of guy, and once he mastered something, he used that knowledge to devastatingly erotic effect.

Only once had things taken a dark turn. They’d both gotten up for a glass of water, and after they’d quenched their thirst, they’d ended up with her against the kitchen wall and him between her legs. Pumping his hips in slow, grinding circles, he’d brought her to the brink—

Then stilled. Shadows crept into his eyes as the color drained from his face.

She’d quickly reached up and brought his mouth down to hers, then wrenched him away from the wall and took him to the floor.

“Fuck me, Stryke,” she’d growled as she rolled her hips and lifted until only the tip of him was inside her. Then she slammed back down.

He’d gripped her waist and lifted her up and down, his gaze fully engaged with hers again, the moment of distraction forgotten.

Afterward, he’d said the position had brought back his time with Popcorn Girl, and his body had sort of shut down. He’d thanked her for yanking him out of it and making their time on the floor something new for his brain to process.

So, yeah, they’d had a busy night. But he was up at too-dark o’clock, making coffee.

Yawning, she reached for the black satin robe he’d given her. Apparently, he kept one in every closet for Masumi. She tried to work out how she felt about the succubus as she slipped into the garment, but truthfully, she wasn’t sure. She hardly had the right to be jealous, not when Masumi had kept him alive for years. She’d supported him, cared for him, and given him doses of truth he needed to hear. Cyan should be grateful, and she was. But that didn’t mean she wanted him to be with Masumi going forward.

She put the Masumi issue aside and padded down the hall toward the kitchen, where she found a cup and a note next to the coffee maker.

There’s coconut creamer in the fridge.

Wow. He really had done his research on her.

Impressed by his thoroughness, she prepared her brew to a rhythmic pounding coming from the open stairway just off the kitchen. When she was finished, she took the steps down and halted at the bottom so suddenly she nearly spilled her drink.

Stryke had an amazing laboratory down here. And, off in a well-lit cove, a second but smaller state-of-the-art gym, where he was destroying a punching bag.

“You know it’s Sunday, right?”

He shot her a glance before pummeling the bag with a jab-cross-jab combo. “I’m aware.”

“So, you don’t believe in sleeping in?”

“I have to go to work.”

She sipped her coffee. “Why? Is there an emergency?”

Jab-jab-uppercut. “I work every day.”

Ah. “Why am I not surprised?”

Jab-hook-slip. “Because it’s in keeping with my workaholic personality.”

“It’s also in keeping with your need to keep your mind busy and off other things.”

He stopped mid-strike. Stepped back from the dummy and dropped his hands.

She peered at him over the rim of her mug. “You know I’m right.”

For a moment, his jaw and fists clenched as he worked out the truth of what she’d said. So much of his life was about avoidance, but he actually seemed honest with himself about it.

“You’re right,” he acknowledged. “But Iamobsessive about work. I have to be doingsomething. I’ve never been good at doing nothing.”

“Then why don’t you take today off? We’ll do something you’ve never done.” Silence. Just more clenching. “You don’t like your routine disrupted, do you?”

He smiled, and her heart hitched a little. Gods, he was gorgeous when he did that. “You know me too well.”

“I recognize the issue. My mom was like that,” she said. “She liked structure and routine. It’s where I get it too. Just…not to your extent.”

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