Or who it originally belonged to, for that matter.
Cinching the belt around my waist, I make my way out of the room and into the hall. The smell of bacon hits me immediately, and moisture floods my mouth. Moving toward the second-floor landing, I descend the stairs and head into the kitchen. To my utter shock, Saint’s there, dressed in gray sweatpants and nothing else, and he’s … cooking.
He glances over his shoulder when I walk in and grins.
It’s almost heart-breaking how stunning he is when he does that.
“Pick your jaw up off the floor, Ellis, and sit down. Food’s almost ready.”
I shake my head, forcing myself out of my stupor, and creep toward one of the stools lining the large kitchen island. Taking a seat, I wait as Saint places bacon and pancakes on two plates and sets one in front of me. I stare at it for a moment before staring up at him in wonder.
“You cook?”
“Spent some time in the kitchen with the cook growing up, especially when my parents weren’t around.” He waggles an eyebrow, but I can tell this makes him uncomfortable. Talking about his murder-happy father always does. “Which was pretty much always, so I picked up a couple things.”
He sits down next to me and starts eating his own meal. I hesitate, not because it doesn’t look delicious, but because I feel a little strange eating without bringing up what he said to me last night. I consider asking him about it, but in that moment, my stomach growls and I realize how hungry I really am.
The conversation can wait until after breakfast.
I pick up a piece of bacon, and it’s perfectly crispy. Then, I take a bite of the pancakes and I let out an involuntary moan of pleasure. They’re so fluffy and practically melt in my mouth.
“You keep making noises like that, and I’m going to bend you over this island,” Saint tells me.
I turn wide blue eyes toward him, and he’s staring at me with a heated gaze. My cheeks flame up instantly. “What? They’re actually … good.”
“The secret’s almond extract,” he replies, though the intensity of his stare hasn’t lessened. My body responds as if it’s perfectly trained to react to him. His eyes drop down to the stiff peaks of my nipples, and he licks his lips. “Looks like you’re hungry for something besides pancakes.”
Rolling my eyes, I turn my attention back to my plate.
“Not happening,” I say, even as memories of what we did the night before overwhelm my mind and make me hotter. “Not until…”
He releases a deep, disappointed sigh. “I suppose we should talk about what I said to you last night, huh?”
“Something like that should really come with an explanation.”
When I peek over at him, he looks almost annoyed. “Fine. But after we eat and shower. You’re ripe as fuck.”
I let out a horrified shriek and slap his shoulder as he chuckles.
“Asshole!” I shout.
He leans over until his mouth brushes my earlobe. “Mmm, now there’s an idea,” he murmurs. “I’ve fucked you about every other possible way.”
“Seriously, Angelle?”
“Fuck yeah, I’m serious.”
How are we having this conversation right now? Last night, he told me he’s dumped not one, but two bodies, and now he’s talking about doing anal like nothing else out of the ordinary has happened between us.
What’s worse is that my mind is instantly seizing on the idea, and I’m starting to fidget with curiosity.
I shake the thought out of my head. “Not happening.”
He scratches at his chin, but he doesn’t look surprised. “Damn. Thought I’d get your mind off things and fuck your ass in one go.”
“Nice try.”
Turning on his stool so he’s facing me, he cages me in with his arms.
“Fine. We’ll talk, but before I open my mouth about anything, I want something.”
I tense. Here we fucking go again. “What?”
“You. Here with me this entire weekend.” His voice drops to a low growl. “Just you and me.”
I blink at him, shocked. In a million years, I’d never have guessed that’d be his request.
“You … you want me to stay?”
“Promise me you will, and I’ll tell you what you want to know. Some of us, little masochist, are team players.”
It’s definitely a trap, but I don’t think it’s one meant to hurt me. He holds my gaze steadily as he waits for my answer.
Finally, I bob my head up and down. “All right. I’ll stay.”
A shadow of a grin passes over his lips.
“Good. Now, there’s a swimsuit up in my bathroom for you. Go change and meet me out by the pool.”
I’m caught off guard, completely at a loss as to the turn in the conversation. “Wait, what? You said you’d—”
He chucks me under the chin. “I will, but not now. Now, I’m going to fuck you in the pool while you wear the slutty black bikini I picked out for you. Later, we’ll reveal secrets.”
Before I can respond, he stands and starts collecting the dishes to take to the sink. He doesn’t look back at me as I stare at him in shock, but then, knowing I have little choice in the matter, I slip from my stool and head upstairs to find my new swimsuit.
After a day of swimming, sex, and occasionally eating and exploring the weird ass nooks and crannies of the Angelle mansion, I’m laid out on one of the lounge chairs by the pool, soaking in the last rays of the setting sun with Saint sitting in the chair next to me. I’m exhausted, but so satisfied that I can’t keep the stupid little grin off my face.
“So, you still want to know what happened?” he suddenly asks, cutting through my happy haze.
I lift my sunglasses from my eyes so I can look over at him. “I do. You sure you want to tell me?”
He’s gazing up at the sky, one hand tucked behind his head.
“Not particularly, no,” he confesses. “But I’m hoping it’ll get you to open the fuck up to me.”
I bite my lip against the instinctual protest that bubbles up my throat. He can tell me whatever he wants, but I’m not positive I’ll do the same.
Even if I’m finding that I really, really want to. Just to get it off my chest.
“We’ll see,” I hedge.
He glances toward me with an arched brow and a snort. “That’s all I get, huh?” He sighs. “Fine. I’ll take it.”
I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the lounger so I’m facing him.
“Okay … so what happened?”
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and then finally, “It was a few years back. Toward the end of our sophomore year. Rosalind and Liam had just started dating—”
“You sound so nonchalant when you say that,” I interrupt, and he narrows his eyes at me.
“Because it’s complicated. I wasn’t happy, but I got over it because Rosalind is … Rosalind.”
“You were dating her at the beginning of this semester,” I point out.
“Again … complicated,” he says again, emphasizing each syllable. “Besides, that’s not the fucking point.”