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I’ve ever been here myself. It’s the side where all the rich people live.
“Maxwell,” he grunts. “Why?”
“No reason,” I chime quietly, thinking to myself with a growing smile.
Becky Maxwell.
Mrs. Becky Maxwell.
Ladies and gentlemen, the bride and groom, Mr. and Mrs. Dillon Maxwell…
Well. Maybe a tiny reason for needing to know.
I know already to stay put in my seat when we come to a stop.
Dillon opening the passenger side door for me is a big deal to him.
He wants to be a gentleman, and I couldn’t be more impressed.
I almost forget all about the food, the hot boxes leaving my thighs sweaty and singed as he scoops me up in his arms, moving towards a side door I somehow just know is the kitchen as he growls gently in my ear.
“You’re home now. No more apartments. No more eating from paper sacks.”
“You.”
“Are.”
“Mine.”
I feel myself melt into his strong embrace, willing myself to be strong, but knowing I’m totally at his mercy from this moment forward.
Knowing he has complete control over my destiny.
I know for the first time that I really do love him. I’ll love him forever.
I’m his before he’s even claimed me.
Feeling him scoop me up while I still hold our hot food is nothing compared to the heat between us.
“You need to eat, we both do,” he growls in my ear. Nudging my lobe with his lips, nipping it is the closest thing to a kiss he’ll dare.
I feel my heart falter, almost exploding in my chest, and ask him like I have nothing to lose. “Why won’t you kiss me? Properly,” I ask, needing to know.
And he stops mid-stride through his doorway. The huge wooden door he’s unlocked with a passkey, still holding me tight.
“Because once I start to, I know I’ll never stop,” he cautions me, not even missing a beat as he steps over the threshold of his kitchen, setting me up on a polished marble counter that makes me shiver with cold against the heat of my now burning slit.
The heat I have for him literally set on ice for just a moment.
I watch him reach for fresh plates, cutlery, and cloth napkins. All with the ease of someone who’s master of their domain.
Every inch of it.
“Eat,” he commands, setting plate upon plate of perfect food across the counter next to me.
Lasagna is there, but also other kinds of pasta, steak, and a ton of vegetables cooked a dozen different ways.
“Eat,” he growls again, letting his eyes fall between my legs but moving them away, moving his stare back to the food.
Letting me know I need to have strength for what he has in mind to follow.
“I think you might be a little disappointed with dessert,” I comment, glancing wide-eyed over all the food.
A veritable feast for me, I know there is no way I could ever eat as much as he could in one sitting.
“Dessert?” he asks, looking like he’s annoyed at himself. Forgetting the one thing I might have been craving.
Maybe.
I look down, embarrassed.
And not for want of sugary treats, not even for the food in front of us.
But for him. I only want Dillon, and feel stupid for this one and only thing left between us.
I sigh loudly, bitter that he doesn’t get it.
“I’m barely nineteen, Dillon. You’re a man of the world,” I exclaim.
But he only cocks a brow, interested beyond words at what else I have to tell him.
“Go on,” he orders me in a husky tone, leaning forward and moving some plates to one side so he can put his hands square on the huge marble counter.
His shoulders flex under his clothes. His huge V-shaped torso tensing in anticipation from what I’m about to say.
Like he already knows.
Like he already knows everything about me from tasting me on his fingers.
Some strange chemical message he’s deciphered already.
Damn. I love him.
I love everything about this man. He had me the first time he tasted me. But he’ll have me forever once he stops reading my mind and starts to claim it as his own.
Mine to give. And only his.
Forever.
“I’ve never…” I whisper, looking away, feeling stupid again.
Knowing a man like Dillon Maxwell doesn’t wait a whole day and night to hear someone murmur, “I can’t…” or, “I never…”
“You never had a man do this?” he asks, moving over to me like a flash of lightning. Grappling my legs wide at the ankles and pulling me, sliding me up against his rock hard frame.
His even harder cock pulsing through his pants up between my legs.
“I’m a—” I gasp, trying to tell him again before it’s so obvious I have no idea what I’m doing.
“I know you are,” he rasps, finishing my sentence and gripping me harder, sliding his firm grip from my ankles all the way up to my thighs.
“Now say it,” he commands firmly.
