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I bit down on my lip, staring into those eyes. Eyes that melted me like lava when they stared at me with heat.
"I love my gift." I answered sincerely. "Thank you."
He didn't speak for a moment, serious and stiff. I realized that his walls were back up—because Amara was here.
I sashayed up to him, and his eyes went to my body, taking in my shirt, which only went to my thighs. "You're wearing my shirt."
"You weren't here to give me something to wear."
He crooked an eyebrow upward, "And a drawer full of pajamas isn't enough?"
“It smells like you.” I leaned against his chest, pressing, my eyes bright and eager for him.
"Did you miss me, Summer?" his voice was soft, a low rumble—meant for my ears only.
"Yes." I tucked the note into his shirt pocket. "I missed you holding me last night."
"Me too, but I had things to do,” he murmured, pulling a strand of hair behind my ear, sending a shooting, thrilling heat rushing down my chest and belly. He ran his fingers down my neck and to the top of my shirt, hooking it there. He tugged, pulling me towards the door, "Come here. I need to speak to you.”
I followed him, entranced. As soon as we were outside the kitchen, he wrapped fingers around my neck and pushed me against the wall.
His dark gaze burned into me. “I don’t think you’ve shown the appropriate appreciation for my gift.”
“You’re right,” I swallowed hard. “Thank you for bringing her here. Seriously.”
His eyes studied mine for a moment, softening. “You’re welcome.”
“It means a lot to me. And to her. I don’t think anyone’s ever done something like this for her.”
“They should. She’s important to you. That must mean she’s special.”
“She is,” I said, still caught in his gaze as he stepped into me, pressing his hips into mine.
“I think you need to be taught a lesson on how to show proper gratitude.”
My breath quickened.
“I think you’re right,” I bit down on my lip, trying not to smile.
“You know what else I think?” He leaned forward, pressing his lips to my ear.
“What?” I breathed in, momentarily distracted by the sounds of banging coming from the room next to us. It looked like Amara had given up on her hope for cereal, donuts, or toast, and was cooking. She started to sing to herself.
“I think you like your lessons entirely too much. Are you being naughty because you want me to edge you?”
“No,” I gulped.
“I think you are.”
“No,” I repeated. “Please.”
“I think it would be an appropriate lesson,” he fell to his knees, staring up at me, “Plus, I overheard your conversation. You need a demonstration of who I really am to you—since you don’t seem to know.”
“Is that so? And who are you?”
“The man addicted to the taste of your cunt. Now, can you be a good girl, and keep quiet?”
“Yes.”
