Page 14 of Break My Rules

“How are you holding up?” Saint asks, looking down at me with a tender smile.

“OK,” I say, still holding him. “I guess I’m still trying to process everything. It’s been a crazy few days. The Blackthorn Society party, and then your dad…”

“I know.” Saint hugs me tightly. “I’m glad you’re here, though. It made the last twenty-four hours so much easier, knowing I would be coming home to you.”

I smile. “I’m glad I’m here too. You have way better heating than back at the apartment. And much better snacks.”

“You found theChoco Leibniz?” He chuckles, noticing the pack of fancy chocolate wafters I’ve pretty much demolished. “I stocked up, just for you.”

“Careful,” I tease, smiling. “Keep wooing me with 70% cocoa solids, and you’ll never get rid of me.”

“Well, maybe that’s the plan.” Saint meets my eyes, and heat sizzles between us.

I look away, suddenly breathless. The bond between us is different now. Stronger, more solid. Not just about the thrill of wild attraction anymore, but something deeper taking hold.

Real emotions.

Real risk.

“Are you hungry?” I ask, stepping back from his arms. A little overwhelmed. “We could grab some dinner, somewhere nearby.” I suggest. “What do you think?”

“That sounds fine,” Saint replies, but when I look closer, I can see that he’s pretty much exhausted.

“Let’s stay in,” I decide. “I’ll cook.”

Saint arches an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” I grin, moving to check out the contents of his fridge and cabinets. “I’m a woman of many talents.”

“Oh, I know.” Saint’s voice turns seductive, and when I glance over, he’s giving me a smoldering look. “I remember a few of them. Vividly.”

I laugh. “You, sit there, and keep your hands to yourself,” I instruct, pointing to a stool at the farmhouse table island in the middle of the room. “Unless I need them for mixing or chopping. You’re on sous chef duties tonight.”

“Yes, chef.” Saint salutes, doing as I told him—but not before detouring to put on some jazz music, and pour us both a glass of wine. He hands one to me and then steals a kiss, his mouth hot and sweet.

I break away, laughing. “What did I say?”

“To keep my hands off,” Saint replies with a smirk. “But you didn’t say anything about my mouth.”

He kisses me again, longer this time; his tongue sliding against mine in a slow, sensual dance.

I shiver, my blood already heating in anticipation, loving the taste of him. “I thought you were hungry,” I whisper, as his lips trail to nibble at my earlobe.

“I am.”

Damn. The low growl in his voice makes my thighs clench, but I force myself to dance out of reach. “Sit. Stay,” I point, and he grins.

“You’re feeling bossy tonight? I think I like it.”

“You like everything,” I reply, flirty, as I start assembling ingredients. I can already tell, I don’t have the focus to make a real meal, not with Saint lounging there watching me, so tempting, so I figure a simple pasta is best. Luckily, his pantry is stocked with amazing high-end ingredients, and it doesn’t take me long to find everything I need for my favorite sauce.

“Here, chop,” I pass him the olives, capers, and anchovies, as I get started setting a pan of water on the stove to boil. “We’re making puttanesca.”

“You know why they call it that, don’t you?” Saint asks, looking amused as he reaches for a knife.

“No, why?’

“It’s from the Italian for whore,puttana. It literally translates as ‘in the style of prostitutes.’”

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