Page 93 of Ruthless Lord
“It smells incredible.”
“Really? I wasn’t sure.”
“You smell better.” I breathe her in, loving the light perfume she wears.
“I did a little cleaning too. Bathroom, bedroom, living room.”
I pull back in surprise. “What’s the occasion?”
“I don’t know. I guess I wanted to play housewife.”
“How was it?”
“Tiring. Don’t get used to it. I’ll excel in other aspects of our life.” She tugs me in and kisses me, deep and lingering. Fuck, I can’t get enough of this woman.
“You already do,” I whisper, unwilling to pull away, but she lightly pushes me back.
“Honestly, I’m buttering you up. And Emily helped a bit.”
“Ah, now that makes more sense. What are you trying to butter me up for?”
“I have an idea I want to run past you, but first—” She starts plating dinner and pours a big glass of wine. “Why don’t you eat?”
“I know what you’re doing. Trying to get me full and drunk.”
“I’m not exactly being subtle here.”
“And I’m not complaining.” I kiss her one more time, skirting the line, but she doesn’t seem to mind.
We sit at the table together. She ditches the apron. I keep tossing glances at her lips and eyes. I love the way she does her hair, so simple and elegant, and she wears the fuck out of her clothes. Whatever she puts on her body somehow looks expensive and gorgeous. Maybe that’s just her, shining through.
“This is fucking good,” I mumble through bites, devouring the meal while she watches, grinning and happy. “You sure you can’t make this a habit?”
“We’ll see. Honestly, it was kind of fun. But now I have all those dishes.”
“I’ll clean them. I’ll clean you too. Whatever it takes for more of this.”
“Easy, boy. It’s just chicken.”
But it’s not. It’s the fact that she went out of her way to clean our house and cook me a meal when she didn’t need to. Maybe she’s trying to soften me so she can pitch her plan, but still. She did all this to make me happy.
I don’t know the last time someone went out of their way for me like this.
We sit together at the table. She pours the wine and we start eating. “Everything’s delicious,” I tell her and genuinely mean it. The girl can fry a mean chicken cutlet. “I’m very impressed.”
“You mean, it’s pretty good for a rich girl?” Her eyes sparkle with teasing amusement.
“You’re not quite atItalian Grandmalevel yet, but you’re definitely nicer to look at.”
“The highest compliment imaginable.” She picks at her meal, not paying close attention. “It means a lot, you saying that.”
“And it means a lot, you going through all this effort.”
“Even if I have an ulterior motive?”
“I can’t blame a girl for wanting something.” I lean in, smiling slightly. “So long as she doesn’t blame me for wanting too.”
“Don’t tell me you’re making innuendos at the dinner table?”
