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“You’re one to know, considering all the whores who had to fake an orgasm to stroke your earth-sized ego.”
“I don’t fuck whores; they’re called escorts. And believe me, not one of them has had to fake an orgasm.”
“I’d be shocked if that were the case, seeing your selfish, narcissistic tendencies.”
“Are we going to pretend I didn’t give you more orgasms than you could’ve counted the night we conceived Gwen?”
My body heat turns up a notch despite myself, and I speak in a snotty way to camouflage my reaction. “The only thing I remember about that night is leaving. Guess your orgasm-giving abilities arethatforgettable.”
“Liar.” His voice drops to a deeper tenor and I swear I can feel its vibration on my skin before it settles at the base of my stomach. “You can make everyone believe you’ve forgotten about it, but here’s the thing. I don’t belong on the effortlessly fooled list, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me that. I amnotyour sweetheart.” And I hate that my heart is beating so loud, I can hear the thumps in my ear.
“You prefer being labeled a witch?”
“I prefer my given name.”
“It’s too bland for me to remember.”
“Has anyone told you that you’re a dick?”
“In the last hour? Twice. And before you ask, no. As much as I appreciate your special attention to my dick, I’m afraid it’s closed for business when it comes to you.”
“Funny. I recall it being so open for business that you slept with it inside me.”
He grins and I internally curse myself.
“I thought you didn’t remember.”
“I only remembered after I woke up. Not during.”
“Don’t be cute. It got you knocked up when you were jailbait.”
My stomach cramps in painful intervals with intense consistency. His words, the meaning behind them, the emotions associated with them are slowly but surely chipping away at my control. Kingsley, however, looks as vicious as a demon lord with a beef against everyone—hell included. I wish I could peel off his aloof mask and see what type of mess is exactly going on in his dysfunctional brain.
But since I can’t do that, and I don’t want to let the conversation steer down that old and minefield-like lane, I clear my throat. “How close are you with Nicolo? I didn’t think you’d be friends with a mafia boss.”
“Nicolo and I share the same amount of friendship between a scorpion and a frog.”
“But you just said your fathers were friends.”
“Doesn’t mean we’ve kept the legacy going. Marco Luciano worshipped the billion-dollar road Benjamin Shaw walked on and my father admired his boundless power. A connection Nicolo and I abhorred until it eventually broke apart. He stayed in his shadow-shrouded world and I kept my billions, blinding looks, and eternalForbesstatus.”
“And arrogance, apparently.”
“Arrogance is flashing my status in front of the world until they gag on it. I’m not arrogant, sweetheart. I’m merely assertive about who I am and what I have.”
I pause, staring at him.
Like really stare at the man behind the Apollo-like appearance and fashion god style. And it hits me then.
Kingsley might be a loud mofo who likes throwing his weight around with the infuriating confidence of a deity, but he’s not a fan of the media.
Or attention.
Or press conferences.
In fact, he’s made it his mission to live his life as far away from their watchful eyes as possible. Never engaged in their petty questioning or given them the time of day.
