Page 20 of Savage Debt (The Debt Tales 2)

Between the love in his voice and the choice to use the word “ours” rather than “his”, I cave to request on a dramatic shoulder sag. “I was trying to show you that I can do shit in the bedroom too! That I’m not afraid to please you in other ways. That I can give just as good as I can take…You know…if I know how to give, which I don’t really because I’m not sure what you like or don’t or prefer or wish I did or-”

“Twinkle Toes,” he warmly calls out ceasing my rambles, “You don’t have to do kinky shit for me. I love being the one to do shit to you. I love being the one that makes you fucking come. I love being the one to discover new shit you like. And most importantly, I love being the only one you let do that shit for you.”

Okay, he said love like seven times or some shit.

Does he…possibly…love me, or am I reading too much into this?

“For the record, I don’t like foot things done to me. Never have. I commend you for trying.”

The corner of my lip tries to curl upward.

“However, I will say this. I don’t mind a morning choke on my balls. That shit always makes me wanna bust right on your chin so I can watch it drop down to those perfect tits of yours.”

Shock and awe alike send my jaw to my lap.

“So, tell me, Mrs. DeLuca,” he saunters a little closer, “what is it you’re cooking for us?”

“Your favorite.”

“You know what that is?”

“Frittatas.”

It’s his turn to look surprised and impressed.

“I listen, Mr. DeLuca.”

“I see that.” He flashes me a small smirk. “Tell me how I can help.”

After giving Nero a sweet smile in return, I rise to my feet to begin delivering instructions. We work in tandem around the luxurious kitchen, grabbing mixing bowls, cooking utensils, pots, pans, and ingredients. Laughs are shared as he pokes fun at me for preferring my toast with “the white crap sprinkled on it” while I tease him for his bougie choice in eating expensive eggs. We each share the reasoning behind our respective favorites. The fact that they’re both family-related seems to connect us on a deeper level.

He cracks eggs with ease in between telling me about his mother and his non-DeLuca grandmother, both of which drilled into him the importance of family and treasuring it.

I share sentiments of life with my parents before the step-demons during my mixing, and Nero doesn’t resist his instinct to hang onto my every word, showering me in attention I can hardly fathom deserving.

Thirty minutes later, sparkling apple juice becomes the finishing touch to our meal – due to the non-alcohol rule for a possible concussion – as we settle into the bench of the breakfast nook. In spite of the fact that there are so many captivating areas of the house that we could dine at it, we choose the one which is more intimate.

The one in which we resemble the two newlyweds I’m starting to think we’re no longer pretending to be but actually are.

One leg drapes itself lazily over his leg on a crooked grin.

There’s no missing the arrogant smirk the action creates or denying the instant possession the hand that lands on my thigh takes. Nero uses his other hand to retrieve his fork, break off a piece of the frittata from the plate we’re sharing, and offer the bite to me after blowing on it softly.

The instant the bite is on my tongue I’m bombarded with incredible flavors. While I know what to expect from the eggs, potatoes, and mozzarella, the added ingredients of mushrooms, cherry tomatoes, green onions, artichoke hearts, and diced salami add to it a fullness that’s topped off perfectly by the kick of fresh garlic and cayenne pepper he didn’t think I could handle. I do my best to swallow my moans alongside the mindboggling creation to stop myself from admitting that he knows his way around not my only heart but the kitchen as well it seems.

“So?” His expression is riddled in curiosity. “What do you think?”

Playfulness hijacks my answer, prompting me to respond with an unimpressed, “Meh.”

“What the fuck is meh?” His brows lurch upward in comedic outrage. “Meh does not sound like a good thing.”

I softly laugh, poorly hiding the fact I’m lying.

“You’re fucking with me.”

“Maybe…”

He smiles to himself, shakes his head, and sends the fork back down to retrieve another bite. “I see you’re in a challenging mood today.”

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