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“Don’t be so negative. Life has brighter sides—namely me.”
I physically roll my eyes, and I don’t usually do that. “You’re so full of yourself.”
“For all the right reasons.” He stubs his cigarette in the ashtray, letting it join a dozen others lying about, and motions at the coffee table where there’s a takeout box. “Eat.”
I lick my lips. “How did you know I was hungry?”
I didn’t get to eat earlier because of this same bastard, so the sight of food makes my stomach growl.
“Because of that. Your stomach was making itself noticeable, even when you were slumbering away.” He chuckles and I inhale deeply, but I smell him more than the food.
He’s all around me, and even metaphorically inside me. It’s a mismatch of colors and emotions that leaves me hopelessly chaotic. I’m unable to process anything when he’s everything I see, hear, and breathe.
I can even taste his cologne on my tongue.
So I choose to focus on something I understand. Food.
It’s Italian—my favorite. But it’s not really that weird that he got it since most people love Italian.
I dig into my pasta without bothering to glance in his direction.
“Your manners must’ve left the building.” His voice echoes around me like the Grim Reaper’s favorite lullaby. “The least you can do is express gratitude for my thoughtful behavior.”
I swallow the mouthful of pasta, put the fork down, and sign, “People who have thoughtful behavior don’t expect gratitude.”
“I do.”
“Thank you.”
A grin lifts his lips. “You’re welcome, little muse.”
“This doesn’t negate the fact that you interrupted my actual dinner.”
“It was totally worth it, and if you weren’t drowning in absolute nonsense, you’d admit it as well.”
I lift my hand to give him the middle finger and he raises a brow. “Just think about where that finger will be if you flip me off.”
I snarl, because I know he absolutely delivers when it comes to threats, and choose to dive back into my pasta.
At least this makes sense.
He definitely doesn’t.
Silence stretches in the living room, minus the sound of the fork against the cardboard plate. It’s strange that he didn’t grace me with one of his over-the-top mocking replies.
I chance a glance in his direction only to find him studying me so closely and coldly, I feel as if I’m being dissected by a mad scientist.
“What?” I sign after I gulp loudly.
“I was just thinking that you look edible in my shirt, possibly more than the food you’re consuming. Want to consummate your push-pull relationship with my cock?”
“No.”
“Doesn’t hurt to ask.” He lifts a nonchalant shoulder. “But mark my words, Mia. You’ll welcome my cock in your tight little cunt, whether by choice or after we do another discovery journey of your kinks. One thing’s for certain, though. He’ll be your favorite flavor.”
I really can’t believe him.
He could easily bag an award for the most arrogant and impossibly unbearable man.
