Page 123 of The Secrets That Kill

He approaches the preparation like he does everything, with single-minded focus.

But his touch is gentle and soothing, and it’s almost like he’s got kid gloves on, like he believes I’m so breakable he needs to be delicate.

The last of the veil from the sex, from the whole night, from all the bad and the good, the lows and the highs, and the absolute pleasure pool, dissipates in the steam from the shower.

It’s just me now. And him.

I want to say I don’t need to be treated this way.

I want to say I don’t need him to be so delicate and gentle with me. It’s not the way I break.

But I secretly covet every touch, every slide of the cloth against my naked skin, and if he spends a little more attention on my pussy, who am I to complain?

When we’re done and I’m more turned on in the regular way, not the slave way, he wraps a fluffy towel around me and dries me off.

I’m a little curious to see what he’ll pick out for me to wear, and when I see the T-shirt and old gym sweats on my bed, I gape at them.

“Just put them on.” He flashes a glare at me to silence the questionon the tip of my tongue.

Really?

Both items swim on me.

“I guess you really do work out, huh?”

“Yes, Pollyanna, I do. Quit trying to make something of it or I’ll make good on my promise of keeping you naked.”

With that, he stalks out of the room.

And I can’t help but smile.

Once I’m dressed, I walk down to the kitchen. I try to help but he bats away my hand and points to a bottle of wine on the counter.

I open it and sit on the stool before pouring myself a glass. My ass hurts in that weirdly good way that reminds me of when he spanked me with both the belt and his hand. And my pussy…

It feels gloriously used and hungry for more.

There’s a low tingle of need deep inside of me, despite having been fucked six ways from Sunday.

I sip the wine and wiggle on the seat to dull the stinging sensation.

Mercer barely looks up from chopping a tomato. He’s got a sleek and lethal-looking knife in his hand. “Your ass?”

Heat burns in my cheeks.

“You want more, Pollyanna?”

“Maybe.”

“And maybe you’re just a very greedy, insatiable brat.”

The smell of the chicken starts to permeate the kitchen. I breathe it in deep. “Heaven.”

“And a salad.”

I snort a laugh. “Heaven and a salad. Maybe that needs to be a song.”

“A fucked-up country song for a cook with a broken heart?”

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