Slip of Fate (Werelock Evolution Book 1) (21 page)

“I can get out now if you’d like?”

My stomach fluttered. Guilt clawed at me as it had before upstairs when I’d cast sanity aside and allowed myself to laugh with him. To delight in the easy, sensual way he’d kissed me.
Shoot, had I just thought that aloud?

I sagely reminded myself I’d wanted to flee from him just moments ago along with his fear-stricken kitchen staff. But my mind was becoming twisted it seemed. I was losing grasp of right and wrong, my sense of normalcy slipping away.

Because I couldn’t summon up the will to even acknowledge his offer, much less tell him
yes
,
I wanted him to leave my mind now
, as I knew I should. Instead, I chose to ignore that he’d spoken altogether, and bask in the calm and safety I was feeling for just a while longer, regardless of how false it may have been.

We remained in silence like that, his fingers thrumming pleasantly up and down my spine. My ear was pressed to his heart, and I found myself further soothed by the sound and the sensation the steady beat of his life provided as it pulsed against my cheekbone.

I was now full-on hugging a bad guy.
And liking it!
To further my dismay, I realized it was one of the best hugs anyone had given me in a long time. The one glaring flaw I found with it was that I wasn’t exactly hugging him back. My hands were folded in against my own stomach, mashed awkwardly between us—a rather lame position for them to be in a hug situation.

My thoughts wandered to what it might be like to touch Alex—to hug him back, to let my fingers stray across the smooth, bronze skin covering the muscles of his back as he held me.

“Milena, you have permission to touch me. Now and in the future, anytime you want. Understand?”

My face heated against his chest at his softly spoken, solemn words, and my eyes flew open.
Omigod, I hadn’t meant that the way I’d thought it!
I didn’t want to touch him!
Not really
. It was just something I’d randomly wondered about—just a bit of unfiltered stream-of-consciousness nonsense.

Fuck, this sort of thing was
exactly
the reason why it was a terrible idea to ever get comfortable with another person inside your head!

His chest had begun to quake against my cheek. “Would you like for me to get out now?” he offered again, his voice rich with humor. I nodded against him. Seconds later I felt around for him inside my head and confirmed he was gone.

“So …”—he kissed the crown of my head—“when were you going to tell me about this gangster boyfriend of yours?”

I emitted a feeble, awkward chuckle as I recalled making that reference out loud before when I’d been panicking. Alex’s fingers traveled up my spine to massage the back of my neck.

“Wait … you couldn’t possibly mean
me?”
he asked with mock incredulity. “Really? Boyfriend and girlfriend so soon?”

I rolled my eyes at his chest.
Ass.
As if I were the one insisting on any form of relationship with him whatsoever!

“Mm … not sure I’m ready for labels,” he pondered aloud, as if considering it. “Never been anyone’s
boyfriend
before …”

Dignity urged me to pull away from his embrace and smack him. But dignity warred with the sensation produced by his talented fingers working the tension from my neck, and lost.

“You move a bit fast for me, princess. ’Fraid I’ve never done well with commitment,” he continued to tease, drawing upon that infinite wellspring of egotistical charm he brandished so readily. “What’s in it for me? Besides you as the ultimate clichéd gangster girlfriend?”

“You are not funny.”

“Not supposed to be; I’m the gangster. My job is to scare everyone, remember?” he pointed out, his upper torso shaking with laughter again.

I made a fist with my right hand that was folded between us and punched it straight into his quaking belly.
Ouch.

He pulled away from me as I hissed and shook my fist out, wincing angrily up at him. “Baby,
baby
,
”
he sang, making a pouty expression, “I’m the mean, scary gangster, remember?” He drew my fist to his mouth and kissed my knuckles. “Let me do the hitting.”

As I opened my mouth to deliver a scathing retort, and to let him know in no uncertain terms that he was the very last man on the planet I’d ever want as my boyfriend, his lips split into one of the sexiest grins I’d seen him wear yet, leaving me feeling like I’d been the one sucker-punched in the gut. I forgot everything I’d meant to say as his tongue came out and licked across my fist.

In truth, I wasn’t hurt, having only playfully punched him. Yet I let him continue to lick my hand anyway—
again and again
—because it felt too good to stop him.

But as my eyes rolled back in enjoyment of the sensation, I started to feel his licks in places I shouldn’t have.
Literally feel them
. I blinked. Was I going mad? My eyes darted down to my jean-clad legs where I sat on the counter and then back up to Alex’s face.

“As a ruthless gangster type,” he said against my hand, “I’m going to demand some benefits to go along with this boyfriend label you’ve saddled me with.” His obsidian eyes twinkled mischievously, and as he gave the back of my hand a long, slow lick with the flat of his tongue from my knuckles to my wrist, I swore I felt the exact lick from an imaginary, unseen tongue go straight up the inside of my thigh, at precisely the same speed and pressure, causing my inner leg muscle to jump in response.

My eyes widened and flew down to my lap again. There was nothing there. Instinctively, my knees tried to press together in self-preservation, but Alex was planted squarely between them against the high countertop, his hips locking them apart.

I looked back up at Alex, who was smiling behind my hand as the point of his tongue commenced drawing lazy circles against the delicate skin of my inner wrist. I squeaked in the back of my throat when I felt the same lazy tongue circles drawn just a tad too high for decency up my sensitive inner thigh. He chuckled darkly as my eyes darted frantically back and forth from my lap to my wrist.

“A-Alex?”

“Hmm?” he hummed, cocking his head at me and pausing in his attention to my wrist. “Too close for comfort?” he asked, his lips curling with amusement. “Or not close enough?”

I gaped at him in alarm, my face flushing blood red. This seemed to amuse him even more.

“Think about it and let me know what you decide,” he said with a seductive smile. “’Course, I have my own favorite spots I’ll want to play with as part of my boyfriend benefits …”

He blew ever so lightly over a tiny expanse of skin upon my damp wrist. To my absolute horror and stupefying pleasure, by some wicked magic I felt the same soft, cool stream of air hit unerringly against my now wet, throbbing bundle of nerves—as if I were naked and intimately spread open for him rather than fully clothed, shielded by a layer of jeans and underwear.

I twitched and an involuntary shudder danced up my spine. I gasped and choked on air, forgetting how to breathe as my abdominal muscles tightened and my inner walls clenched reflexively, my core weeping in shameless, silent entreaty as my clitoris pulsed its own desperate need for more direct attention against the seam of my jeans.

“Too close?” He squinted sheepishly, patting me on my back when a full-on coughing fit ensued.

“You are
not
…” I managed to rasp before succumbing to another choking fit, “my boyfriend!” I batted my fists against his chest, pushing him away when he tried to soothe me. “And you can’t … can’t just do that!” I scolded, scooting as far back as I could on the table in an effort to get away from him, taking care to draw my knees together in the process.

“You had
no
right …” I choked and cleared my throat. “It’s
not
okay!”

He tried but failed to look repentant as his lips persisted in lifting at the corners despite his best attempt to control his mirth. In a last-ditch attempt to feign contrition, he covered his mouth entirely with his palm and nodded soberly as I continued to rail at him.

“You always do this! Every time I start to feel like you might be capable of just a little decency, you go and do something … something completely, utterly … dickish!” I accused. “You’re a bully! You terrify your staff, and you make fun of my fears and inexperience—”

He held his forefinger up. “One sec, babe.” He dashed supernaturally fast to a far corner of the kitchen, disappearing through a glass door and reemerging with a stemmed glass and a bottle of red wine bearing an off-white label.

“Go on,” he urged as he proceeded to uncork the bottle with the ease of a seasoned waiter. “You were saying something about my dickishness?”

I groaned in exasperation and shook my head at the ceiling. “Just forget it.”

I was wasting my breath trying to appeal to his nonexistent humanity. I heard the sound of glass clinking and then liquid flowing. I assumed he was pouring the wine for himself, so I was surprised when I glanced back down from the ceiling to see him hold the half-filled glass of red wine out to me.

“Uh … no, thanks,” I declined.

“It’s an excellent pinot, I assure you.”

“I’m only eighteen!”

“I’m not likely to tell on you to the American Embassy, Milena,” he said with a laugh. “The legal age is eighteen here.” He pressed the glass into my hand. “Humor me?” he requested with a pointed look that suggested he might make it a directive if I didn’t oblige. “Take a few sips. It’ll help us both relax.”

I rolled my eyes and grudgingly brought the glass to my lips. I made a face as the flavor overpowered my tongue and burned the back of my throat on the way down. I extended the glass back to him.

Aghast at my reaction, he took the glass from my hand, swirling and sniffing the liquid carefully before raising it to his own lips for a sip.

“It’s perfect,” he declared, offering it back to me. “Try it again.”

I shook my head. “It’s awful. I don’t like it.”

“It’s Romanée-Conti pinot,” he argued, as if that meant something.

I shrugged and folded my arms across my chest, refusing to take the glass from him.
Fuck him and his fancy wines and spa showers and closets the size of living spaces.
“Well, it tastes like crap to me.”

“You have got to be kidding me,” he protested superciliously, appearing thoroughly disturbed by my assessment of the stupid wine. “Have you never had wine before?”

“I’m
eighteen
, asshole! And I
was
relaxed before you started sexually bullying me … freaking me out with your … your magical …”—I waved my hand in the air as I sought the words to describe it accurately while my face flushed in remembrance—“invisible tongue … trickery.”

He nodded, biting his lip before covering his mouth again with his free hand, his eyes swimming with humor.

“If you’re not going to feed me, I’d like to go back to my unnecessarily opulent prison cell now,” I said with a huff, scooting myself forward to the edge of the table.

He set the wine glass down and held his forefinger up to me once more before darting over to a long row of large metal refrigerators. He opened and shut three or four of them before finding whatever he was looking for. He returned with a container of club soda and a wedge of lime. He added club soda to the glass of wine, filling it to the rim and then topping it off with a squeeze of fresh lime. He stirred the contents with the tip of his finger and then brought it to his lips, grimacing when he sampled his own concoction.

“Sacrilege,” he muttered, offering it to me. “Try it now.”

Reluctantly, I indulged him and found that it tasted much better. It was sweet, milder in flavor, and altogether palatable with the addition of the soda water and lime. I nodded in acknowledgement, taking another sip before holding it back out to him.

“Oh, no.” He raised both palms in refusal. “That glass of wine is all yours now.”

I rolled my shoulder and took another sip.
Eh, what the hell?
I’d had a beer once at a high school party. It had tasted dreadful, and I’d only managed to drink half of it. I’d gotten a slight buzz, but nothing too exciting, either good or bad, had come of it.

I continued to nurse my carbonated red wine, enjoying the new flavor the more I consumed, as I watched Alex begin to sort through the pre-assembled ingredients and cookware items the nervous young kitchen worker had gathered.

I’d been dubious as to Alex’s ability to boil water without assistance, so initially I simply stared in stunned silence as he heated a large cast iron skillet over the gas stovetop before brushing what appeared to be a half a dozen rib-eye steaks with coconut oil. But I snapped out of my stupor when he began sprinkling the raw meat with a dry rub preparation of herbs and spices.

“Um … so I’m a vegetarian,” I announced.

He raised his head and paused for the briefest moment before continuing to season the steaks.

“As in I don’t eat meat,” I clarified stupidly after a beat.

“I’ll fix a salad to go with your steak,” he said as the iron pan started to smoke. He placed two steaks onto the skillet, and almost instantly my mouth began to water at the delectable scent of raw meat cooking.

I hadn’t consumed animal flesh since I was twelve. Yet now it smelled like the only food I wanted to eat. Confused, I gulped down more of my fizzy wine while I watched Alex poke and flip the rib-eyes with a two-pronged steak fork.

I soon found myself staring at the way his chest and arm muscles flexed as he worked. Studying the blue veins that ran up the underside of his forearms beneath his golden brown skin. Pondering completely inappropriate and wholly irrelevant things like how the smooth skin covering his absurdly cut abdominal muscles might feel against my lips. I pulled at the collar of my V-neck henley and fanned myself, feeling hot all over.

“Shouldn’t you be wearing a shirt?” I complained, my breath sounding ragged. “Or an apron at least? It’s not very sanitary cooking half-naked like that.”