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Sure, he wasn’t lovey-dovey. Wasn’t as tender and sweet as my Carter can be.
Believe it or not, my muffin—as possessive and unhinged as he is—has a soft side to him. He started calling me pet early on in our relationship. Laves kisses around my nipple ring after almost biting it off when we fuck. Tells me I’m his good little cum slut.
Seriously, half the time, the man is nothing short of adorable.
Killian, on the other hand, isn’t. He’s been generous. Has opened his home to me, had me over for dinner. Shared Carter’s time with me without a word.
Sweet, though? Never.
Case in point, Carter’s statement of Killian is Killian.
As I ponder this, my fingertips trail over the blue Egyptian cotton sheets. My eyes take in the new framed selfies of us he hung on the otherwise empty charcoal-gray walls.
I count one on each wall, three in total, not including the floor-to-ceiling windows. We’re smiling, either under Brooklyn Bridge or under the covers and at my place.
This is the only place where he keeps photos of me. His and Killian’s office are bare of anything personal. I visited there a couple of times to sign the contracts that binds Voltage to my flower shop for the next decade, and their desk—other than the laptop and work papers—was empty.
It makes sense. Carter insists on hiding our relationship when we bump into each other over there. Says he doesn’t like gossip.
That’s understandable. Carter cares about me. I know he does.
Killian, on the other hand, turns out to be a mystery. His possessive touch earlier threw me off.
Attraction is a physiological reaction. Angry glares make sense, since I’m in his space. Also, I can be silly. And loud.
Affectionate gaze, however? This isn’t the Killian I’ve come to know.
Then again, maybe I had him all wrong.
Maybe the signs have been there and I’ve been too nervous around him to notice.
Oh, yes. Like on that Friday night three weeks ago.
Carter and I walked into the Murdock-Steele penthouse. We’d been back from one of our nights out under the Brooklyn Bridge. My guy had asked me to sleep over here instead of crashing at my apartment. Since I opened late on the weekend and it was easier for him to wake up early and go to work from there, I said yes.
Our tummies were blissfully padded with burritos. Carter didn’t drink the mojito he got me. But I did. I annihilated the bitch.
I drunk-giggled about something he said. Carter, in turn, flashed me his deviant grin and promised to fuck the laugh out of me.
He dragged me lovingly toward his room, and I taunted him, “Choking me on your dick is more of a promise than a threat, you know.”
“It’s both, pet.” He winked at me.
It’d been late at night. The only light permeated from the kitchen. I thought we were alone.
Wrong.
“Good evening.”
My scream sounded inhuman even to my own ears. Killian scared the living shit out of me. My gaze snapped to the kitchen where his voice came from. To the man leaning his hip on the kitchen counter.
His white Henley stretched across his pecs, glowing under the soft overhead lights. His dark eyes were darker and more insidious than usual.
Killian’s attention on us hit me hard in the chest.
There was something vibrant about it. Something sick. He was trying to crawl inside my head.
Carter let out a low laugh. Freaking laughed while my mortification rendered my mouth and pussy into a state of shock.
