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I stand in the kitchen, staring blankly at the carrot I am supposed to be chopping.
Zayn is poring through the legal document that binds Elijah and me in our partnership. Whereas I refused to hand it to him to inspect, his father was just amused and sent him a copy.
“It’s pretty much cut and dry.” Zayn sounds disgusted, almost as if he was hoping that his father is trying to screw me over so that he could wave it in my face with an ‘aha.’
I would have rolled my eyes at him if I had been paying attention to him, but my mind is on what Lorraine said, lying in bed, her grim-faced mother standing next to her like a dragon guarding her charge.
“There was no sign of a woman in the building,” I say, loudly.
Zayn glances up at me. “She might have slipped out.”
I pick up the knife and then bring it down on the carrot in a loud thud, making him blink at me.”
“Could it be one of your ex-girlfriends?”
Zayn snorts at that. “I don’t have ex-girlfriends. I have ex-one-night-stands, and I doubt they would be gunning for you. If they have a vendetta, they’d come for me.”
I chop the carrots into tiny pieces, complaining, “I don’t know why they’re calling me a whore when clearly you’ve embraced that role with such gusto.”
Zayn snorts. “Doesn’t count if I’ve been practicing celibacy for the better part of the past year.”
“Celibacy, my ass,” I mutter, moving on to chop the peppers now. Then, a wicked look in my eye, as I say, slyly, “Not anymore, you’re not.”
I don’t know why I push him but the heated look in Zayn’s eyes makes my breath hitch.
The predator in him is showing and the admiring gaze in his eyes makes me feel pleased, satisfied at being the sole focus of him.
God, I am going to have to do something about this streak of possessiveness growing in me.
Zayn isn’t mine.
He wants to be, though, a sly voice whispers in my head.
He hasn’t moved from his seat, watching me with an unnatural stillness that has my mouth running dry, the look in his eyes is like a physical touch, and I have to force myself not to go to him. Those eyes demand submission, and if I have to bare my throat for anyone, I know it would be him.
My feet are glued to the floor, however. I am terrified of taking this step and yet I can already feel his hands on my skin, phantom hands, stroking, coaxing, pushing me over the edge, claiming my pleasure, branding my skin with his marks of ownership.
When did I put the knife down, I wonder, as my feet move towards the man who haunts me every second of the day.
Bad idea, a voice inside me warns.
But the satisfied look in his eyes makes it worth it. It is smug, and I like it.
He is sitting on the high stool on the other side of the island counter, and he parts his legs, letting me walk till I am standing between them.
He tilts his head in that strange way he sometimes does. It is oddly endearing, curiosity in his eyes, mixed with dark desire.
He is leaving this up to me.
I have to approach him.
My hands move to his hair, running through the locks, and I sigh. “You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?”
The slow smile that paints his lips gives me all the answers I need. They feed my hunger, making me ache inside.
It annoys me as well that he isn’t doing anything, just watching, patiently.
However, two can play this game.
