Page 30 of The Reaper

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“You should go.”

“Say it like you mean it.”

I didn’t.

He waited until the last door shut, until the dining room was ours and ours alone.

Then he stepped forward.

“Show me the kitchen.”

I knew what he meant.

I also knew I wasn’t going to say no.

I led him past the pantry, through the double-swinging doors, and into the heart of Promenade. Everything had been cleaned. The steel gleamed. The burners were off. The tile was still damp where someone had just mopped.

The kitchen was quiet. Still.

Except for me.

My pulse pounded so loud I could barely hear.

He walked past the line, trailing one hand along the countertop like he belonged there.

Then he turned and leaned against the prep table, arms crossed, watching me again.

“You want me to touch you,” he said.

I didn’t answer.

“You want me.”

I swallowed hard.

“And you want it in here,” he said. “Where you rule everything else.”

I felt like I’d been split open.

He stepped closer. “Say it.”

“I want—” My voice broke. “I want to forget.”

“Forget what?”

“Everything,” I said. “The pressure. The fucking timelines. I want to stop thinking. Just for a minute.”

He lifted his hand and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.

“You picked the right man.”

And then—slowly, deliberately—he tilted my chin up and kissed me.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t hesitant.

It was possession, pure and immediate.

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