Page 54 of Ruthless Enforcer

My cock knows it, and the rest of me isn’t far behind.

Having Clara on her knees between my legs is one thing. Having her look at me like that? It’s a whole different kind of dangerous.

45

CLARA

Like yesterday, Gabriel spent the entire day with me in my studio.

Unlike yesterday, I didn’t have to convince him.

I finished the painting.

It’s beautiful—stark and masculine and strong, like Gabriel himself. I used paint that dries faster, so I think it’ll be dry enough next week to send to the gallery safely.

Now I'm sitting on the counter, bare feet dangling, a glass of Margaux in my hand, watching my husband cook dinner like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Which is absurd.

Gabriel Reyes is an enforcer for one of the most dangerous families in the country. He kills people. He orchestrates operations. He does things I’m sure I can’t imagine. He should not be dicing shallots with the precision of a surgeon while humming something low and tuneless under his breath.

"You're staring again," he says without looking up.

"You're cooking.” Inane, yes, but my mind is boggled.

He smirks. "Observant."

God, his dimples are hot. I take a sip of wine, trying to get myself under control. "I assumed you'd order takeout. Or have something pre-made delivered."

"We're miles from the nearest town, Duchess. Delivery isn't exactly an option." He scrapes the shallots into a pan with the flat of the knife, and they hit the hot oil with a satisfying sizzle. "Besides, I like cooking."

"You like cooking." Who is this man?

"Is that so hard to believe?"

"Yes."

He glances over his shoulder, one dark brow lifting in amusement. "Why?"

"Because you're"—I gesture at him, at the tattoos visible beneath his rolled-up sleeves—"you."

"And I can't enjoy making risotto?"

"You're making risotto?"

"Mushroom and white wine. My mother's recipe." He adds the rice to the pan and stirs it with a wooden spoon. "She'd disown me if I let my wife starve."

The word wife detonates like a landmine in the kitchen. The sudden silence is deafening.

We both pretend we didn’t notice. Instead, I slide off the counter and move closer, drawn by the scent and the heat and the utterly surreal domesticity of watching Gabriel Reyes cook his mother's recipe in a secluded little beach house on a Friday night.

"Can I help?" I lean over his shoulder and inhale the aroma.

He bumps me with his hip. "You can stay out of the way."

He smells even better than dinner. "Rude."

"Efficient." He pours white wine into the pan, and the liquid hisses and steams. "You don't know your way around a kitchen."