Page 51 of Vows of Betrayal

I wandered toward her. My hands landed on her hips, and I kissed that sensitive part of her neck that she liked so much. “I'm good. What are you making? It smells great.”

She tilted her head, giving me more room to kiss her neck. Which I immediately took full advantage of.

“Just some biscuits. They'll be ready right away.” Her breathy voice shot straight to my cock. I wanted her to be underneath me talking in that voice.

“I'd rather have you right now.” I kissed her neck again, dragging my tongue as I did so.

She laughed and grabbed a dish towel off the counter. “You need to eat and keep up your strength.” She turned around in the small bit of space I allowed between us. Her hands landed on my bare chest. I hadn't put a new set of bandages on after my shower. Francesca usually told me to let it dry out a bit before taping more gauze and shit on top of it.

“This looks better.” She scrutinized my wound. “Much better.” The feel of her soft hands on my skin was driving me out of my mind. “I think you should keep this open today. Don't put a shirt on for a while.”

I grinned down at her and touched my mouth to hers. “You just want me naked. Don't you?”

She giggled and kissed me back, her hands sliding up to my shoulders. “Go sit down. Breakfast will be ready in—” She didn't get to finish. A loud buzzer went off, interrupting.

I moved back and let her deal with the stove. Sure enough, she pulled out six steaming hot biscuits. My mouth watered at the sight and smell of them.

“Your pants are dry. I folded them and set them on the couch.” Francesca nodded in the general direction.

“Thanks,” I said and wandered over that way. I picked up my bathtub pants—that was what I called them in my head, anyway. Every night, Francesca washed my pants in the bathtub.

The fucking bathtub.

And then hung them to dry. Often, she used the hairdryer on them to— “soften them up a bit.” But it didn't help much. They still felt like sandpaper against my skin.

Giselle had brought them to the hospital for me. All I had was one pair of pants, one shirt, and one pair of boxer briefs. And socks. That was it.

As soon as we got to my place, I was throwing all of it into the fireplace and burning it.

My pants didn't feel any better today as I slipped them on and sat down on the couch. The puzzle caught my eye, and I leaned over slightly to get a good look. That was when I noticed a piece of paper with three puzzle-shaped pieces sketched on them.

“Here, watch out. Everything's really hot.” Francesca handed me a plate and then sat down beside me. She'd put eggs, cheese, and sausage inside the biscuit. I took a bite and closed my eyes. “This is so good,” I mumbled over a mouthful of great-tasting food.

“I know,” Francesca said, chewing. “Bernie stuck in a few sausage patties with the hamburgers yesterday. That guy is the best.” She nodded and took another bite.

Jealousy that I'd never felt before in my fucking life curled up in my gut, ready to strike out. “Do you like that guy?” I asked, ready to hobble on down the billion stairs to go strangle the little asshole.

“Yeah, he's great.” Francesca nodded and grabbed the remote.

But I slipped it out of her hand. “Exactly how much do you like him?” I glared at her, my heart suddenly beating furiously inside my chest.

She tilted her head slightly and frowned. “What do you mean?” she asked in an unsure voice. From the look in her eyes, I could tell she had no idea what I was getting at. Francesca needed this spelled out for her. So, that was what I'd do.

“Do you want to fuck him?” I snapped, perhaps a little harsher than I meant to.

Actually—no. I fucking meant it.

Her mouth dropped open, and she moved away. “No. Why do you ask?” she clipped right back. Her defensiveness was not a turnoff. Seeing the fire inside of her only made her more appealing to me.

“I ask,” I set my plate on the crate, “Francesca.” I tossed the remote onto the couch beside us. “Because I need to know when I should snap his neck. Now,” I grabbed her plate out of her hand and shoved it onto the crate beside mine, “or later.” My hands grasped her arms, preventing her from moving away.

“You're crazy,” she whispered in disbelief. But I had to get this through to her. Make her understand that she was mine.

And no one else’s.

“Maybe. But I'm really fuckin' jealous, Francesca. Don't ever forget that. You belong to me. Not that snot-nosed imbecile downstairs.”

Her eyes widened. “Bernie is sixty. At least. And he doesn't want to date me. He's fed me—for free—more times than I can even count.” Her voice was calm, but I could still detect the underlying fear behind it.

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