Page 59 of The Criminal's Custody

I’m so damn aware of the man’s presence. I can smell him: a robust, masculine fragrance, an enticing cocktail of post-sex sweat and the lingering suggestion of expensive aftershave that only a billionaire can have access to. The scent, as it envelops me, stirs the fires of desire within me, and it is so damn intoxicating. It turns me on like nothing else can.

I can even hear his heartbeat. It resonates in my ears: a slow, rhythmic, and deliberate sound. So different to my beating little fluttering heart. Even so, it feels like our hearts – despite being in stark contrast – are beating in tandem, making a connection that I can’t begin to explain.

The man turns his head so that his lips are in my hair. He’s both tender and electric. Every move he makes is an unspoken assertion of the domination he has over me.

“I can call my private chef to make you something,” hewhispers. Even his quiet voice and warm breath send a low reverberation through my bones.

“What? You’re joking? You have a private chef?”

“Yes, I do,” Damon replies casually as if it’s nothing to have staff on hand in your own massive mansion.

“No way,” I mutter.

“I do, Ava. You want me to call him?”

I let out an amazed chuckle. “It’s way too late to call the private chef. The poor guy is probably asleep.”

Damon laughs at that. “He’s paid to be on my call any time of the day. I’ll just wake him.”

“No, it’swaytoo late to get him up,” I protest. “I’m not that hungry anyway.”

“No, you’re my guest and you’re going to have something,” Damon replies. “Okay, scrap the expensive private chef I have on call. I’ll make you something.”

“You will?”

“I haven’t cooked anything in years, but I can try.”

“Okay, what can you do?” I ask.

Damon pauses. “An omelet,” he says eventually, a little hesitation in his voice.

“Go on, then,” I reply with a smirk. “I want to taste your omelet.”

Look,Damon’s omelet is actually okay.

“What do you think?” he asks me as I take a bite, that same little hesitation in his voice from earlier in the bedroom. We’re now standing in the man’s massive kitchen downstairs in his mansion. It’s so big that you could feed an army from this room. It has got every kind of appliance an actual freaking restaurant would require.

I swallow as I nod. “Let’s just say you’re not going towin any big culinary awards anytime soon, but it is a good omelet for a man who relies on a private chef.”

“Only good, Ava?”

I laugh. “You really are so competitive, Damon.”

“I just always want to win,” he says. “I always want to be perfect.”

“Perfect isn’t real,” I reply.

“I believe it is,” he replies. “Youare perfect.”

I roll my eyes at that awful comment. “You wouldn’t win a culinary award, but you most certainly would win a cringe award, Damon Penmayne.”

A rare smile crosses the crime boss’ face. “Personally, I think I’m hilarious,” he says.

“We have very differing views on that, Damon.”

“So, it’sonlygood, then?” he asks. “Not perfect?”

“No, not perfect,” I reply. “It’s not perfectlike me, but it’s good, okay? You can rest easy. Stop trying to achieve perfection.”

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