Page 29 of Stitched Up in You
I tighten a fist on my shortly held temper and keep walking, wondering what demon spawned this female to drive me to the brink, when all I want to do is to be away from her.
“Even the goon squad left without a word,” her soft voice echoes behind me before I reach more than a few steps up the gray marble stairs.
The challenge raises my hackles in a way that has sent lesser men to their graves and yet, when I glance back at her round face, at the soft blush of vitality just beneath her skin— I find I don’t want to see the light behind her eyes go dark for what she’s done, after all.
I want to see her on her knees.
I look down at her from across the room. “Rarely does anyone say no to me, but some are tempted by the carrot, and others— you have to show them the stick.”
The pretty green of her eyes fades as her pupils dilate, revealing her attraction to me, and I don’t have to guess further when her gaze drops to my trousers at my innuendo.
She will look even prettier with my cock down her throat.
Chapter 12
FRANK N. STEIN
After a quick visit to the energy chamber below the mansion to set my power levels to rights and a hot shower, I’m feeling more refreshed and able to spar with my unwanted guest. It was easy enough to get her to join me for dinner by shouting at the end of the stairs until she showed herself lurking near the library doors.
I take in her attire, watching her while she gazes at the dining room and table full of food stuff brought earlier. She’s in another set of sweatpants, this time in a soft peach color that makes her pale skin seem pinker and more flushed, and her red hair curls and bounces wetly across her shoulders.
“You look more refreshed after a bath, less—unkempt,” I murmur.
Her head whips to me and a flash of disdain crosses her gaze. “I know right, funny what being allowed a change of clothes and a shower will do for a girl.”
Inwardly I chortle at her little rejoinder, but wave a hand gesturing to her to sit before me.
I only raise a brow when she chooses the head of the table for herself, not waiting for me to pull out her chair.
She sits as ungracefully as she can manage, plopping into her seat and grabbing food with her bare hands to toss it in the direction of her plate.
I merely move out of the way when cream potatoes start to fly and choose the seat across from her at the end of the table.
“Want me to make you a plate?” she asks, her tone light, as if its commonplace to serve dinner in such a manner.
“I’ll manage, thanks,” I reply, not giving into her games and adjusting my cuffs so as to not ruin the fresh silk of my shirt.
“Yum, it looks so good,” she says in a sing-song voice before grabbing a handful of cake and setting it on an empty platter.
“I’ll inform the housekeeper of your approval,” I say, a sense of victory washing over me when she at least begins to look abashed for her transgressions at the table.
“I didn’t know there was anyone else here,” she says, glancing around at the vacant room as if she suspects something monstrous to pop out of the shadows.
“They left as soon as they set the table, probably while you were snooping. We are alone,” I reply.
She goes quiet for the first time since I’ve been in her presence. The silence spreads, only the quiet sounds of cutlery filling the room.
“Is the bedroom sufficient?” I ask, trying to cajole her into small talk.
“It’ll do, I suppose, a little too much cream for my taste,” she says, a smirk playing on her lips.
My hand tightens around the fork I have poised to slide a steak onto my waiting dish, as I recall telling her to take a room on the left hall, which is painted in blue tones. The right wing is gray. She disobeyed me.
“Where is Edgar?” she asks, pushing at the mashed potatoes on her plate with her fork, her face planted in the palm of her hand while her elbow is firmly on the table as I fill my own.
The candlelight throws a red halo around her already flame-colored locks, making her look like a demon sprite. It would make more sense had she been born a demoness, as ornery and defiant as she is.
“He’s safe.” I glance down at how she twirls her cutlery with the wrong hand and fight back a grin. “Are you trying to annoy me with your lack of etiquette, or did you really fail all those decorum classes your grandmother made you attend as a child?”
