Page 43 of Krampus Kruk
My whole body pulses with want, with ache. I want to kiss him.
“Put this collar on me already,” I say, half-joking.
“This isn’t a collar,” he chuckles deeply, lifting the necklace from its box. “This is me showing you I’ll always spoil my baby girl.”
He leans in, fastens it behind my neck, and presses his lips just below my ear—right where the makeup covers his marks from last night.
“So …” His lips brush against my skin again. “Where are we going?”
“Someplace warm.”
“Get in my car.”
My eyes flick to my car in the driveway. “I have mine.”
“You’re riding in mine.”
I raise a brow. “Why would I get in a car with you?”
“Because you love how I hold your hand, squeeze your thigh, kiss you, and turn off your brain.”
No lies.
“I’ll only get in your car if you tell me your life story during the drive.”
“I only want you to get in my car if you agree to change your tattoo.”
I squint at him.
“Add an apostrophe so it saysI’mperfect. Then, no more needles.” He pokes my forehead.
“But what if I want another tattoo?” I test.
“We can discuss.”
We.
“I have to ask permission to get another tattoo?”
He tugs the necklace, pulling me closer. “If you get in this car with me, you agree to this dynamic, to this life.”
I look up at him. “I’ll get in yourfuckingcar if you promise to not keep secrets and to never make me feel unwanted again.”
He wraps his arms around me, pulling me flush to his chest. “I promise.” He squeezes me tight. “My hands won’t leave you until we get to my jet. Then, I’ll say I’m sorry with my tongue—until we land somewhere warm.”
32
Three days later
Sunday, December 28th
Belize. I bought this oceanfront house because the country doesn’t extradite. At least, that was the original appeal. The pristine beaches, seventy-degree winter mornings, and stillness now make it one of my favorite spots. Having Morgan here adds a new dimension—a great one.
I spot her as I finish my morning beach run. She’s in a loose, flowy dress, cross-legged on the patio, a paintbrush in hand again. Her hair’s pulled up, a few strands slipping loose in the humidity. She’s barefoot, quiet, focused.
Glowing.
I slow my pace, taking her in. She doesn’t notice me at first, too lost in the painting, but then she looks up, and we both smile.
