Page 5 of Billionaire's Promise
"A breakfast you can shove up your—"
He tilts his head, and there’s just enough warning in that single glance for me to press my lips together. Why the hell had I allowed him, a complete stranger, into my home? And yet, why does that jut of his jaw, the spark of anger in his eyes, feel so…right?
No, no, no. This can’t be happening.I just had one man walk out on me a few hours ago, and already, I am attracted to another? Talk about being a slut. Only I’m not one. Hell, I’d never wanted to sleep with anyone else before Edward. And now, suddenly, here’s another man, someone to whom I am attracted just as much? With as much intensity as Ed… It’s the same... Yet different, though. With Ed…the pull had been sharp, incisive, almost clinical in the precision with which my heart had gravitated toward him. Probably because once I'd realized that he was a priest, every single interaction with him had felt wrong...but with Baron…there’s a freedom. A need… An overwhelming pull to throw myself at him, throw myself at his mercy, and beg him to do anything he wants with me. Maybe the need Edward ignited opened up a hotbed of something… Some nameless emotion, some twisting sensation that I had hidden away for too long. And now it's out there, and I feel like I am exposed and aching and throbbing and crying out for attention.
My chest tightens. My scalp tingles. My skin suddenly feels too tight for my body. I take a breath and my lungs burn. My knees knock together and I sit down in the chair so suddenly that the legs creak.
"You okay?" His gaze intensifies as he peruses my features and I look away.
Heat flushes my skin and my toes curl. My own thoughts have aroused me in a way that I never would have expected. My thighs clench and my center throbs. The soreness in my backside and between my legs pulses and writhes. Shit, what’s wrong with me? I place my elbows on the table, bury my face in my hands.
I sense him move then. Hear his chair scrape as he pushes it back. The pad of his footsteps, the sound of a glass being filled with water. His footsteps approach, then I hear the thunk of the glass hitting the table in front of me.
"Drink," he commands.
I stiffen. What the hell is his problem?
"Do it," he insists.
I lower my hands and scowl at him.
He simply folds his arms across his chest and glares at me.
Jerk.
I glower back, and his gaze simply intensifies. Hot, burning, overwhelming. The flesh between my legs throbs. Heat flushes my cheeks. I glance away, take a sip. And does the man move away? Of course, not. He waits until I tilt the glass and drink half its contents.
Satisfied, he sits down, pushes my untouched coffee mug toward me.
I reach for it, take a sip. The bitter taste of the java blooms on my palate. I sigh out my appreciation, take another sip. Dark, rich notes of chocolate, laced with a sweeter taste of honey, and in between, the characteristic bitterness of coffee flickers across my tongue. "It’s good." I blink up at him. "Which coffee grinds did you use?"
"The one you had in your coffee canister?"
"Oh." I glance down at the cup, take another sip. "You sure?"
"Yeah."
There’s an amused edge to his tone. I glance up to find his lips twitch.
"No need to make a national joke out of my question," I mutter. "It’s simply that the coffee tastes so much better than when I make it."
"It happens." He raises his shoulders. "When someone else cooks the same dish you do, they have a different touch, a unique way of assembling the ingredients, which will, therefore, be perceived differently by your taste receptors."
"Oh." I blink. "Are you a chef?"
His features close. "No."
He gets up, takes both our plates and the used cutlery over to the sink and begins to wash up.
"I can do—"
He glares at me over his shoulder, and I shut up. Of course, Mr. Growly Pants will do what he wants, when he wants. He finishes the washing up—returns for my now empty coffee cup—which he takes to the sink along with his, and washes that up too. He finishes drying them, puts them away—in the correct places on the shelves, then wipes the counter clean.
"Make yourself at home," I bite out. "In fact, why don’t you move in, while you’re at it?"
He pauses, then turns to me. "Not yet."
My jaw drops. "What do you mean, not yet? I don’t know you at all. You’re a complete stranger and—"
