Page 15 of Shatterproof

Anything.

Everything.

“Depends,” I sweetly retort in return and reach for my nearby coffee mug.

“On?”

“You know the drill, Cowboy.”

He lightly chuckles on a gradual creep closer. “That I do, Angel Cake.”

“So…” a small sip is had, “status report. Holes?”

“No new ones.”

“Bones?”

“Intact.”

“Cuts?”

“Patched.”

“Bruises?”

“They’ll heal.”

Turns out offering him a tasty treat in exchange for a safer return was a wise incentive. Sure, coming home alive should be enough but dangling the promise of sweet deliciousness for thelessinjuries he has works well for both of us because the thing I love most about Slater is the thing I hate most too.

Devotion.

Hisdevotionto getting the job done by any means, any cost – whether financial or physical – is admirable.

And incredible.

And horrifying.

The first time he went back on assignment after fracturing his hand I barely slept the entire time he was gone. He knew it, I knew it, and when he returned home, I withheld dessert until it was revealed that no new life-altering injuries had occurred.

I’ll never forget the look of amusement and appalment at having to physicallyproveeverything was still where it should be while standing on my sunset orange shag rug in the middle of my living room.

Well…almosteverything.

His cock trying to touch the ceiling technically wasn’t where it “should be”.

However, I didn’t mind where it was.

Okay.

I totally minded where it was but only because of where Iwantedit to be instead.

Somewhere it will never be.

Outside of my nearly burn the cake that’s in the oven fantasies, of course.

He’s shot a sweet smirk that’s followed by me casually motioning my head to the shelf on the back wall where the dessert is on display. “Chocolate ganache.”

Slater’s entire solid frame seems to melt into a puddle on the spot. “You know I can’t resist chocolate.”

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