Page 23 of Gilded Locks
Men loved to say things like that, but they would never know what it was like to feel threatened at the market or endangered by simple jogging with headphones in after dark.
He purposely held her breasts through the sweater, waiting for her to shove him away. “You want to say something, but you’re afraid to share too much,” he whispered, warm breath tracing over her cheek. “I love a challenge. Soon enough, I’ll know all your secrets.”
Cold slithered through her veins. That could never happen.
She met his stare, this time her eyes issuing the challenge.
He grinned and lowered his hand, sliding it expeditiously under the draping sweater in one swift move. “How about now?”
The heat of his palm teased upward, gentle and smooth. Other men had touched her far worse.
“Here’s a crazy thought,” he whispered. “What if you give us what we want and it turns out you enjoy it? What then, printsessa?” He grazed the soft curls at her apex, then dragged his other hand higher. “It feels good to surrender, doesn’t it? No responsibility. No shame.”
The heat of his hand closed around her breast, lifting the weight as he gently cupped her.
“You don’t have to think. You only have to feel.”
His thumb brushed over the pebbled tip, and she fidgeted ever so slightly, inadvertently pressing her body closer.
“There you go. Give in to the pleasure. Admit it’s not all that bad to be ours.”
Ours.
How could he touch her like this, then let them do the same? She tried to imagine Hunter’s hands on her, and her shoulders hunched inward.
His hand disappeared the moment her body language shifted to uncertainty. He turned away from her so fast she swayed, slightly off balance.
“Breakfast.” He cracked eggs into a bowl with the precision of a chef. “You need protein. Something to put color back in those cheeks. Scrambled or fried?”
As if summoned by his words, her stomach produced an embarrassing rumble that made him glance over his shoulder and grin.
“Scrambled eggs it is.” He had no issue deciding for her.
She wondered if he’d honor her choice and give in to her preference if she spoke up. Tugging the sweater down to her knees, she watched him cook, fascinated by him despite her unease.
His movements were economical, precise, like he’d performed this ritual thousands of times before. Did they frequently find women trapesing around their halls in the middle of the night? Something about this seemed too practiced.
He whisked the eggs into silky batter as butter heated in a pan. When he pulled fresh herbs from a drying rack in the corner, she wondered how any garden could thrive in this Arctic wasteland. They must have trucks delivering goods, which meant trucks would also leave.
“You don’t look like a cook,” she said in an attempt to make small talk.
“What do I look like?”
She studied the strong line of his jaw and the golden hair curled at his nape. His casual strength was evident in every movement. “Dangerous.”
“I am dangerous.” He glanced at her, ice-blue eyes dancing with amusement and darker promises. “But I’m also practical. Can’t survive on takeout forever. And we get very few deliveries out here over the winter months,” he added, as if sensing her train of thought.
“Do you live here year-round?”
“This is our home—among other things.” He slid perfectly scrambled eggs onto bone china and set the plate in her hands. “Eat.”
“Fork?”
He shook his head slowly, as if daring her to disobey. “Use your fingers.”
Was that because he was testing her, or because he didn’t trust her around sharp objects? She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a challenge. Plucking up a cluster of fluffy eggs, she popped them in her mouth and nearly moaned.
The eggs were creamy and rich with hints of fresh chives and something that might have been truffle oil. “Wow.”
