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“People don’t, though.”
“I don’t know about that. I think the good ones do. It’s called growth.”
He drew a ragged breath and opened his mouth, about to say something more, then clamped it shut, like he’d thought better of it. “I have a call with Blackthorn after service ends. Wait up? I’ll make you dinner and we can stay at the inn.”
“Deal.”
CAL
“All That She Wants”—Ace of Base
I hated Tate Blackthorn.
Okay, fine. I didn’t actually know him, but it was half past midnight and Row was still on the phone with him in his office upstairs. The kitchen was the kind of squeaky clean where you could eat off the floor. Pans and pots gleamed, the air-conditioning was on full blast, and the only audible sound was the loud humming from industrial fridges.
After I slipped out of my work clothes into a pink, wooly dress, I allowed myself to sit on the butcher block counter, dangling my feet. Sweaty, tired, and in desperate need of one more drink, I scrolled on my phone through old notes I’d made for murder-mystery podcast episodes that I’d never had the courage to record.
There was a good chance Row was going to kill me. My ass was on the surface where he made ludicrously expensive, microscopic food. In my defense, there was nowhere else to sit. His face was nowhere in my vicinity, there were no chairs, and the dress was brand-new.
“Sorry it took long.” Row waltzed in, slapping the door open and moving toward me with the sleekness of a feline zeroing in on his prey.
“Heyyy. How was the phone ca—” I was about to jump off the counter but stopped cold when he cut into my words.
“About the attitude you’ve been giving me ever since you returned to Staindrop.”
“Yes?” I blinked innocently, heart almost thundering out of my chest and humping his leg.
“I’m about to fuck it out of you.”
He rounded the pastry station and slid between my thighs, making me spread my legs wider to accommodate him. I was surprised I could still breathe. The heat rolling off his body alone made my mouth water and my skin buzz with excitement.
“I—uhm, if you must.” I tried to downplay my own desire for him.
“I’m afraid I must. Permission to push your limits?” he asked, and I loved that he did. That he put my consent above all else.
I nodded, my chest expanding with fuzzy heat. “Granted.”
“How far?”
“The farthest.” I was feeling reckless and full of bravado, secure in the knowledge he would never ever hurt me.
“Your safe word is bumfuzzle,” he informed me. Rather than fear, all I felt was excitement.
“Why bumfuzzle?”
“Because one would never be tempted to use it as part of dirty talk.” He frowned. “Though with you, I’m not so sure.”
A nervous laughter escaped me, and I bit my lower lip. “I forgot you said only food goes on your butcher block.”
“No, you didn’t.” He leaned forward. I closed my eyes, bracing myself for a kiss, but the kiss never came. Instead, a sharp snapping sound filled my ears. My eyelids ripped open and I realized… What the fuck?
He had pinned one side of my dress to the butcher block by sticking a knife into it. I repeat: He had tacked me to his butcher block with a chef’s knife. “This is not the way I expected to be nailed,” I piped up.
I was aflame, burning with sweet ache and decadent desire. But also…was this going to turn into one of the cases I listened to on Morbid and My Favorite Murder?
No. He wouldn’t.
…would he?
