The lake, glittering against the fading sunlight.
Yeah, his view was better than mine.
His gaze met mine as I made my way to the kitchen, but he didn’t speak. He went back to focusing on the pan.
It looked like he’d been cooking a while. Clean dishes were neatly drying on a rack. Two plates ready for food.
Various smells.
I picked up a glass of wine that was sitting on the gleaming, black marble kitchen island. He’d poured it for me. Whether he had crazy super senses or cameras mounted around the house, I didn’t know, but he’d poured wine for me. It was a simple gesture. It shouldn’t have meant anything beyond what it was.
But it meant something.
It was expensive wine. I could tell that from the first sip. Though I wasn’t much of a wine connoisseur, I knew expensive things. Another surprise, like his tastefully decorated house, no spare machine parts, a Harley poster, or dirt anywhere. There was no way to pinpoint him.
Just like now. Cooking me a meal, pouring me wine without asking. Giving me three orgasms. Though I’d all but demanded the orgasms.
I expected him to speak. It was the time for talking, wasn’t it? Hot sex between two people who definitely hadn’t been planning on this.
But he didn’t.
He looked at me again, as I sipped my wine, leaning against the kitchen island with my hip. The way he looked at me had me being glad I hadn’t put my panties back on. But then he went back to cooking.
And I watched him. Sipping my wine, taking it all in. As someone who worked with words, I didn’t feel the need to speak them all the time. There was a very small amount of people that could be comfortable in silence. I already knew Saint was one of those people, but now, when there were probably many words to say, he said nothing.
I liked that a lot.
Liked him a lot.
Liked his house a lot.
The kitchen was clean. Most of the counters were uncluttered, except for a few wood chopping boards, a Kitchen Aid mixer—I made a mental note to ask him if he really baked—and a coffee maker that made me want to hit him on the head with the pan he was cooking in, render him unconscious, and steal it.
Mine was backordered. Because I was particular, fussy. I wanted the best of the best. And the best of the best was sitting on Saint’s counter, gleaming, while mine was another month away because the company only made a small amount.
He had money. That much was clear from the price tag on the coffee machine alone. But also from the rest of his appliances. Furniture. Art. Wine. The two steaks resting.
I liked men with taste. With money. Part of why I dated the “Todds” I did. Sure, a lot of them were threatened by my success, my talent, my name. But most of them had trust funds that faded even my wealth into obscurity. They knew how to order wine at restaurant. Had nice homes.
It wasn’t an admirable quality in me, but that didn’t matter.
With Saint, even being sure he lived in a shack in the woods, I was planning on sleeping with him. I hadn’t admitted that until now, but of course I had. Beyond the spark between us, he was waking me up. Waking my craft up.
I hadn’t thought he was even close to my type. Then again, Saint wasn’t a type. And if he was, I was pretty sure he was everyone’s type.
Glancing at his muscled back, parts scored and scratched from my nails, I had a strong urge to somehow mark my territory. I had never been jealous. Mainly because I didn’t have men to make me feel possessive enough over to be jealous. I knew a few of them cheated on me. None of them knew I cheated on all of them. But they wouldn’t have cared, beyond the blow to their ego and their image. They didn’t care about me.
Saint turned, two plates in his hands, piled with food.
I realized I hadn’t offered to help him cook. That was probably rude. But that was me. He looked confident, sure, in the kitchen. Two things I was not in the kitchen. He didn’t seem pissed I’d stood there and watched him do all the work.
“Now, I get why you starve yourself,” he said, really focusing on me for the first time since I came downstairs.
“I’m not gonna lie and say you don’t look good. That I don’t like it. Because I do. I know that. You know that.” He set the plates down on the kitchen island. The portions were the same.
He pressed his hip against the counter, facing me, not touching me. “But you’re gonna look better with meat on you. With health on you. Some soft edges. Because there are a lot of things in life that feel good but will lead to bad things.” He paused. He didn’t need to say that’s what we were. Bad. “Many. But food, that’s somethin’ simple. A good meal, cooked right, with time and purpose, good ingredients. That’s something that you can savor, enjoy without fucking guilt.
“You’re gonna live a life of shit, Magnolia. You know that, I know that. It’s part of you. Ugly things. Hard things. Pain. That’s coiled up inside you. It’s all gonna follow you around. Because it’s how you make your living. It’s how you structure your life. And it works for you. Your suffering. Don’t like it. I’ll admit that. But I wouldn’t change it. Because I wouldn’t like you without it. That’s just the truth. I’m not gonna control you, you’ve made that clear. And that’s not who I am, a man that controls a woman. But I will make sure you sit the fuck down, eat what I fucking serve because it tastes good. It’s gonna fuel your body, and it’s not gonna hurt you.”
I waited.
For his words to sink in. For my brain to catch up with them. For my rage to take over.
But none of that happened.
Because it made sense.
All of it.
So instead of saying a damn thing, I sat down at the kitchen island, in front of the plate of food, and ate it.
Every damn bite.
Chapter 12
“It was too cold tonight. To stand and watch. And she was with him. Not the right time. He had to be patient. That was okay. He could have for now. Only one man would have her forever.”
He did the dishes.
Again, I didn’t offer to help. Again, that made me an asshole.
He didn’t seem to mind, since he laid me down on the sofa, went down on me, and I returned the favor. That was a job I was glad to do. I loved the control. Power. Which is why it pissed me off I didn’t do it often enough. I had a policy against going down on men who didn’t return the favor. And despite what romance books told every woman looking for hope, very few men liked to do any kind of job that didn’t involve their dick or their own pleasure.
Saint liked it.
A lot.
We hadn’t spoken much. The meal before had been silent.
There were the obvious sounds, grunts, curses of release on the sofa, but nothing else.
I didn’t have the urge. And I worried words might ruin it, would make me think too much. For once, I didn’t want to think. I wanted to be the woman that could dive into something like this. For a hot second.
Saint sat down beside me, after refilling my wine and starting a fire.
“You’re going to ruin your reputation,” I said, sipping the wine and staring at the flames.
He stared at me. It hadn’t changed. That cold, hard, emotionless stare. A lot of women think it should, after all the sex. That something should change. That everything should change.