Page 115 of The Masked King

EPILOGUE

TWELVE MONTHS LATER

Demi

“Where do you want this?” The voice belongs to a walking, talking palm tree in a gigantic brass-finished pot.

“In the corner near the window.” I barely glance at it as I rearrange two squashy pumpkin-colored couches around an old hand-tied rug that I picked up from a flea market a few weeks ago.

“Here?” The palm tree sounds remarkably like Enzo, who parts the fronds and peers out at me like a tribal warrior in the jungle tracking intruders.

I giggle. “All you need is some warpaint and a loincloth, and you could wear the plant as a headdress.”

He steps out from behind the palm tree, crosses the room, and wraps his arms around my waist, pinning my hips to him. “A loincloth, huh? Is that some strange new obsession you forgot to mention?”

“Maybe.” I slant my eyes at him. “How do you feel about wearing a loincloth for me in bed tonight?”

“If it makes you smile, I’d wear a grocery bag with cut-out holes for my legs and my cock.” He pauses to let the image settle. “But in case you’ve forgotten, we don’t have a bed to sleep in tonight, because someone has been too busy to come and test new beds with me.”

Today is the day we’re moving out of Enzo’s penthouse and into a loft apartment on Nassau Street, Manhattan. It’s a spacious home that consists of an entire level of the building complete with wraparound terrace, floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room, and a view of Central Park. We chose it together, on a bright day when the sun was streaming through the windows and making the hard wood floors gleam like spun gold.

Today it’s cloudy, the city flinching beneath gloomy cloud cover and a relentless horizontal drizzle creating lightning streaks down the glass panes… and the apartment is still perfect.

Because it’s ours.

“I haven’t found the right one yet,” I say. “Besides, we have rugs.”

Enzo peers down at the hand-tied rug between the couches. “We could push the couches together, I guess.” His eyebrows dance independently.

“Or we could drag a couple of comforters outside and sleep on the terrace.”

“In the rain?” He frowns but he can’t maintain it for long.

“It’ll stop later.” I twist in his arms to face the view outside our new apartment, my back against his chest, and he rests his chin on the top of my head. “I can’t think of a better way to spend our first night in our new home.”

“I can.” I feel the rumble of his voice and his heartbeat through the back of my shirt.

“Would you care to elaborate?” I tilt my face to peer up at him.

“Well, it would start with the bottle of champagne currently chilling in the fridge.”

“I like it so far.”

“That’s because you’re easily pleased.” He chuckles. “How many times did you come last night?”

I shake my head. “I refuse to swell your ego anymore by answering that question.”

“I think we could do better.”

I gasp and swivel around in his arms to face him. “Almost sounds as if you’re keeping a record of my orgasms, Enzo Sabatelli. Am I going to find a little black notebook amongst your stuff when we start unpacking?”

“Nope.” He taps the side of his head. “It’s all stored in here.”

He wanted to pay a moving company to handle everything for us, but he quickly caved when I described the joy of setting up our new home together and discovering all the new rooms to fuck in. I was sucking his cock at the time, so it might’ve had some influence, but a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do.

I’m still sore from our last night in his penthouse, but my pussy is already tingling as I scrunch my toes into the rug underfoot and rub my hips against his.

“Maybe we should open the champagne now,” I suggest huskily, “before the rest of our stuff arrives.”