Page 75 of Reckless Devotion

“Thanks.” I offer him a small twirl, popping my hip with a flourish afterward.

My body aches in the most delicious way, and even though I’ve barely slept, I’d fall right back into bed with him given half the chance. Sex marathons with this man are like being run through by a bus. He knows just how to touch, taste, and every other devious thing to have me breathless and my toes curling. Light bruises spot my thighs where his fingers dug in just a little too hard in the heat of the moment, and my lips feel puffy and sore, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I push away the squirm as his eyes twinkle with a thousand unshed, filthy promises.

“Nope, can’t be distracted.” He gives his head a little shake and snaps his attention back to the stove. “I’m at a critical stage of operation feed-my-woman.”

My woman?I swallow roughly, my stomach flipped upside down. The female singer soars into a high note, the chiming disco chorus starting up again.

“What are you cooking?” I ask as I trace light steps across the kitchen tile toward him, hearing the early morning gull sounds seep in from the open French doors leading to the beach. Sunny shouldn't be up for at least an hour, and Mr. Clay too. Weirdly, for a teenager and an octogenarian, they’re on the same sleep schedules.

“Just eggs, my culinary skills don’t extend far past that.” He slides me a sheepish smirk as I reach his side.

“I’ll say.” I point at the eggs in the pan that are starting to char.

“What’s wrong with them?” He uses the spatula to lift them again, looking for the problem.

“You see this color here?” I point at the thick line that traces the outside of each egg. “It’s called black. Do you know what else is black?”

“Your soul?” He grumbles sarcastically, moving the pan off the dancing blue gas flames.

“Close, but not quite.” I grin, lifting one eyebrow up at him. “Charcoal…charcoal is black.”

He groans, twisting the knob so that the flames die, the bitter burnt scent coating the air.

I laugh, sliding my hand down his back. “I appreciate the effort, but perhaps we should leave the cooking to me…or, oh I don’t know, the private chef?”

I lift a sarcastic brow as I highlight the reason this gigantic buffoon doesn’t know how to fry an egg. There is no escaping that this man is from privilege, it’s apparent in the glossy smile, the shiny watch, and the tropical vacation tan that he sports year-round.

He sighs, turning to wrap his arms around me. “I had good intentions.”

“I know.” I press myself onto tiptoes to kiss him, my hands cupping his biceps.

He returns it, soft and languid, the firm press sinking a tingling feeling right to the base of my spine. He shifts his weight, and must lean over to turn the music up using the panel fitted into the wall by the stove, because the disco music amps up, blaring out loudly as the chorus hits again. He pulls back, offering me his trademark crooked grin.

“What is this?” I laugh as he spins me around, the undone jacket I wear flaring to reveal his white T-shirt underneath.

The way his warm eyes catch on the hem tells me he likes me in his clothes as much as I like wearing them.

“It’s Anita Ward, “Ring My Bell”…obviously.”He rolls his eyes and grabs my hand, spinning me away from him and then back close into his chest.

My breath catches in my throat as my head spins from the sudden movement, finding myself tucked snugly against him. My body lights up like a Christmas tree, already primed to do so from the last couple of nights.

“And why are we listening to seventies disco?”

“Because, Peppercorn, it’s how I start my day.” He lets go of me and places one hand on his hip, grinning and reaching up to perform a jaunty disco finger, wiggling his eyebrows. “You can’t have a bad day if you start it by dancing to this song. It’s the rules.”

I clap a hand to my mouth, half stunned as my shoulders begin to shake. He moonwalks a couple steps back, pops his chest, and starts performing some of the most goofily dad-coded moves I’ve seen this century.

“Do you like this one?” he asks, moving his hands in a joint swooshing motion toward the floor. “I’m sweeping the floor.”

My eyes squeeze together, a laugh bursting out. I have to give it to him, the song is infectious, light, airy—one that you can’t help but feel good listening to. Or perhaps it’s watching the ultra-masculine six-foot-six male in front of me intentionally make an ass of himself.

My hip starts to bounce to the beat and he points at it whilst executing a move that looks like he’s turning on a pull-start lawn mower. “See! You’re getting it.”

If someone had told me that I would be dorky dancing in the kitchen with the grumpy billionaire I set out to destroy, I’d have laughed in their face, but here I am starting to rock my body to the beat, letting it do what feels good without thinking.

He sings the lyrics surprisingly well, grabbing my hip and scooping up my hand, beginning to whirl us around the open plan kitchen to the tinny beat.

My heart swells in my chest as we laugh together, moving to the rhythm of the song that seems to go on and on forever, him trying to hit the high notes without any care for how ridiculous he sounds. On any other man this would give me the ick in three seconds flat, but somehow, with his carefree spirit and unwavering confidence it’s just…sexy as hell.