Page 42 of Protégé King

I lift my head and look down at Alana. “You okay?”

She laughs. “Yes, of course, I’m good. Why wouldn’t I be very good right now?”

“Because you hate me.”

“Yes, well, we both know that’s complicated.”

“Maybe we can make it a little less complicated.”

“I’d like that,” she says, and I ease down her body and kiss her belly. “Am I allowed to tell you how fucking hot you are?”

“Yes, but only because it’s something you can’t say to a sister.”

“That’s why you hate me telling you that you’re beautiful? You think it was sisterly?”

“It was. It’s what you said with your arm around another girl.”

I laugh. “You were never sisterly to me, Alana. Believe me, I always wanted to fuck you, not them.” I grab her a box of tissue and set it on her belly. It’s the messy part of sex, but no man will never complain about skin to skin. “Proven by the fact that I kept kissing you,” I add.

“While with another girl.”

“That’s not true.” I sit up and grab my pants, pulling them back on, as I point out, “Okay the only time that was true was when I was leaving for college, but I broke up with her that same day after you got pissed, and it was you and your hands-off policy that created that. I couldn’t take it anymore.”

She scoops up my shirt and untangles the T-shirt, which she pulls over her head, draping it over her knees. I sit down next to her. “Remember?”

She glances over at me and softens her voice. “I remember a lot of things.”

I reach over and stroke hair from her eyes. “Me too, baby.”

She catches my hand. “What are we doing, Damion?”

I know she’s talking about us and where this is going, and I give her as honest an answer as I can. “I hope we’re about to get engaged.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Alana

Damion grabs his phone and punches in a number, successfully waylaying the topic of the fake engagement. “I’m going to see if we can get the Italian place by way of delivery.”

I listen to him talking to whoever answers the phone without really hearing. I’m thinking about what just happened, about him saying he owns me. It’s a sex game, a thing men and women do during erotic play. I’m not naïve to these things, or without my own sexual history, but what bothers me is that he already does. He always has, and I pretended otherwise. I actually convinced myself otherwise. Or maybe I didn’t. I knew. I absolutely knew if I went down this fake fiancée path with him, I’d end up sleeping with him.

I haven’t even said yes, and I already made that prophecy come true.

He disconnects and sets his phone down. “They’ll have it to us in half an hour. A big tip goes a long way.”

“Did you order for me?”

“Of course, I did. Lasagna. That’s what you always get.”

He’s not wrong. “And you got fettuccini?”

“I did,” he says, laughing. “I told you, we still know each other.”

“You’d think our palates would change as adults and yours for sure, living oversees so long.” I motion to the kitchen. “I have wine. I actually have a really expensive bottle a client gifted to me.”

His hands settle on his knees. “Tell me where it is, and I’ll pour.”

“I have a little bar nook off the kitchen.”

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