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She giggled again, and her eyelids drooped lower, a satisfied smile curling her full lips. “The totally-jellified-right-now kind.”
He scooped her up, her body light in his arms. “Come on, let’s go upstairs and I’ll explain the delicacy that is peanut butter.”
“I can walk, you know,” she said as she snuggled against him, her palm covering his still fast-beating heart.
“But this way I can guarantee you end up exactly where I want.”
“And where’s that?” she asked, her eyes fluttering shut.
“My bed.” At least for the next forty-eight hours. After that he’d walk away like the reporter in Roman Holiday. The thought was a hard kick to his kidneys.
Her body tensed, and he waited for her objection, but none came. Instead, she relaxed by degrees against him as he walked out of the movie room and up the stairs to his room. By the time they’d reached his door, her eyes had fluttered shut, her soft, sleepy breaths tickled his neck, and she felt so right in his arms he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to let go.
Chapter Ten
Elle stretched out on the bed and rolled to her side, snuggling up with Dom’s pillow. He’d gotten up half an hour ago when the sun was low in the east and she could barely open her eyes, but she could still smell him on the pillowcase—warm and tempting and better than she’d imagined he’d be. And she had a damn good imagination.
The smell and her memories weren’t as good as the real thing. She cracked her eyelids. Rumpled sheets? Check. Super-manly room in dark colors and zero throw pillows? Check. Dom? No check. She sat up and pushed the rat’s nest off her face, amazed at how a night of great sex could do serious damage to her hair. Where was he? That’s when she saw the note propped up on the bedside table.
I’LL BE RIGHT BACK. IN THE KITCHEN, MAKING BREAKFAST. WANT TO MAKE SURE YOU HAVE PLENTY OF ENERGY FOR THE DAY. DON’T MOVE. —D
Yeah, that was totally going to happen. She grabbed one of Dom’s white button-up shirts off the end of the bed and pulled it on. It came down to midthigh and smelled like him. She then hustled out of the bedroom, dying to know what Dom in the kitchen looked like. It was so unexpected for a billionaire who’d grown up wealthy and never had to make his own breakfast in his life. Was he a secret gourmand? A total newb? Did he make scrambled eggs or quiche? Dry cereal or pancakes? Was it—
She skidded to a stop outside the door to the huge gourmet kitchen. Her tongue turned to sawdust. Even wearing just his crisp dress shirt she was overdressed. He was in boxer briefs—and only boxer briefs—that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. If she’d been wearing panties they would have been toast.
“You going to stand there and ogle my ass, or are you going to help me figure out how in the hell this thing works?” He pointed at the toaster oven.
It took her a second, but she remembered how to breathe and move again. She walked into the kitchen and snuggled up behind him, wrapping her arms around his lean waist and letting her fingertips slip underneath the waistband of his blue boxer briefs. God, he smelled good first thing in the morning. A girl could get used to this—she could get used to him, and she couldn’t let herself do that. She only had him until the plane left for Elskov, and if that thought wasn’t enough to snap her back to reality and step away from Dom before she fell too deep, nothing was.
Heart pounding against her ribs in pre–anxiety attack mode, she took a calming breath and came around to his side. The only thing in front of the toast was a half-empty carton of eggs. No bread. No bagels. No breakfast pizza boxes.
“What are you making?” she asked.
He punched a few buttons on the toaster oven, his nose scrunched up in frustration. Nothing happened. “Scrambled eggs.”
As soon as his words penetrated the lust-induced fog that seemed to surround her whenever she was near him, she jumped between Dom and the toaster oven, her finger pressing against one well-developed pec. “Step away from the appliances or you’ll kill us all.”
“What?” One blond eyebrow went up as he stepped forward, backing her up until her ass was against the counter and his hard body was pressing against her from the front. “I used to make them like this all the time at university.”
Desire careened through her. It was wild, breathtaking, and totally out of control. Unable to stop herself from touching him, she circled his flat nipple before leaning in and lapping at the now hard nub with her tongue then sneaking under his impressive biceps. He pivoted, resting his hip against the counter, but didn’t chase. He didn’t need to. He caressed her just by looking in her direction.
It shouldn’t be like this, not with him. He was too dangerous. Too controlled. Too much. But if not Dom, then who could it be like this with? She was going to be queen. In a few years, if the Fjende didn’t kill her first, she’d marry an appropriate aristocrat, not a panty-drenching billionaire who wasn’t even Elskovian, let alone of the right class. After that, she’d produce an heir who’d follow in her footsteps right onto the throne. There wasn’t a space on her royal calendar for Dom. But she wasn’t queen yet.
She glanced at the clock and did the math in her head. Thirty-five hours until their private jet took off for Elskov and the rest of her life, if the men who killed her father didn’t get to her first. Barbwire knots formed in her stomach. God, what she wouldn’t give for her father to be there now. Not so she wouldn’t have to be queen, but because he’d know what to do next. He always had. She rubbed her palm on her stomach and pretended the ache was hunger pains.
Dom cocked his head to one side and gave her a considering look. “Hey, you okay?”
“You make eggs in a toaster oven?” she asked, trying to get her brain to focus on breakfast instead of the uncertainty awaiting her in Elskov.
He opened his mouth as if he was going to ask again, closed it, and then shook his head before pointing to the toaster oven. “If I could figure out how to power this thing up, you’ll see.”
Giving the toaster oven a good look, she spied the problem. “Think this would help?” She held up the unplugged cord.
“We’re saved,” he sang out in a deep bass, kissed her on the tip of her nose, and plugged in the toaster oven.
It buzzed to life, and a deep orange glow traveled along the coils holding up the ramekins full of eggs. She did a hip-shimmy happy dance. Celebrating successes, even the small ones, was an important way she’d kept her sanity when she’d built her secret identity.
“So what other secret cooking talents do you have?” she asked.
