Page 14 of Twisted Tate

Me: Don’t you have class or something?

My brother is supposed to be getting his MBA at Harvard just like Fox and I did. But we all know that going to class isn’t exactly required for us. It’s more of a paperwork formality that our father takes care of.

Thorne: Fuck that. I’d rather be an asshole to you, big brother.

Me: Find a hobby.

Thorne: That IS my hobby. Seriously though, what’s going on? You bailed on Dad’s meeting this morning. He’s pissed.

Fuck. I should have told Dad where I’d be. I’ll deal with that later. But I still can’t tell Thorne anything right now. He’s an idiot about some things, but he’s not actually stupid. If I say too much, he’ll start asking questions I don’t want to answer. And he could find me sooner than I want to be found.

Me: I’ll talk to Dad. Anything I should know?

Thorne: He got pulled away. There’s something going with the Council. He wants us all to keep an eye on our phones in case he needs us.

Goddamnit. That could be about Reese. I had hoped I might have a little bit more time. And I definitely should have given my father a heads up that I took her.

Me: Let me know if you hear anything.

I pocket the phone and turn back to the stove. The eggs are done. I slide them onto two plates and add a couple pieces of bacon to each one.

My eyes dart to the door as I hear movement from the hallway, and then she appears in the doorway.

My cock goes from half hard to fully hard in about two seconds.

She’s wearing clothes she found in the guest room last night—sweatpants that hang low on her hips and a tank top that’s too big and doing absolutely nothing to hide the fact that she isn’t wearing a bra. Her nipples are visible through the thin fabric, and I have to force my eyes up to her face before I do something stupid, like cross the kitchen and find out if they’re as sensitive as they look.

Her dark blonde hair is messy from sleep, falling around her face in waves. Without the makeup from last night, she looks fucking gorgeous. She looks even more innocent right now, if you didn’t know what she looked like on her knees with a cock down her throat.

I know. And it’s been playing on repeat in my head ever since.

“Morning.” I nod toward the plate. “Sit. Eat.”

She doesn’t move. Her stormy gray eyes scan the kitchen then land on me standing here barefoot in jeans and a t-shirt, like I’m not the same man who threatened to make her beg last night.

“You made breakfast.”

I am not at all offended by the tone of her voice when she says it.

“I’m aware of what I made.”

“You actually know how to crack open an egg, and cook them.”

“I know a great many things. Are you going to sit down, or do you want to keep narrating the obvious?”

Her eyes narrow, and there she is—the sharp, defensive woman from last night, not the vulnerable one I saw on my camera.

“Why? How?”

It’s fair. I’ve lived in a house with cooks my entire life, just as she has. And I’m going to guess she hasn’t actually cooked a damn thing in her life.

“I didn’t staff the house for our visit, so I suggest you eat while you can. A little bit of appreciation never hurts.”

She crosses her arms, which pushes her braless tits together in a way that makes my dick throb. “Will words do or are you looking for a thank-you blowjob for the herculean strength it took to fry eggs for your hostage?”

The image of her on her knees with my cock in her mouth slams into my brain so hard I have to grip the counter behind me.

“You aren’t my hostage, and we can skip the gratitude.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “Now eat the fucking eggs before they get cold.”