“What type of past?” I ask in a murmur.
He shakes his head slowly. “You don’t get to ask that when you’re hiding yours.”
“I told you about my mom.”
“She’s not what you’re hiding from, so that doesn’t count.”
I purse my lips and attack another slice of pizza.
He just leans back on his palms, watching me with a grin. The asshole. “That’s what I thought.”
“I want my butterfly back,” I blurt out of nowhere.
He’s still grinning and I’m considering the best way to wipe it off his face, aside from the obvious option—murder.
“What makes you think I have it?”
“You mentioned it the other day, so that means you do.”
“Maybe if you show me your real eyes.”
“I will not.”
“Then I don’t have it.”
“Knox! That butterfly is important to me.”
“Apparently not enough, because you refuse to compromise.”
But it’s not a compromise. He’s demanding to see a part of me that will make me vulnerable and I refuse to play that game. “Are you always an asshole or only with me?”
“A little bit of both.” His grin widens.
“I hate you right now.”
“We have all the time in the world, so I’ll convince you otherwise.”
“No, we don’t.”
“Of course we do.” His voice drops when he says the words that make me shiver, “I’m not even close to being done with you, beautiful.”
20
KNOX
“Are you sure you’re only chopping the potatoes and not murdering them?”
Anastasia stares up at me from behind the kitchen counter, a delicate frown appearing between her brows.
She’s wearing a hoodie that barely reaches mid-thigh and keeps flashing me her lace panties every time she bends over or reaches up.
Needless to say, my dick has been twitching non-stop at the view. It’s one of the reasons I agreed to let her help me make dinner, despite the fact that she’s absolutely helpless when it comes to cooking.
However, she’s taking it seriously. Way too seriously, considering the concentration that’s written all over her delicate face, accentuated by the light hanging from the ceiling.
“I am chopping,” she says matter-of-factly, motioning at the potatoes with the knife.
“They look murdered to me.”
“But I did it slowly like you told me.”
“It’s still not right.”
Her shoulders hunch as if she’s failed something monumental. “Whatever. You do it.”
“Let’s do it together.”
“How—”
I wrap my arms around her from behind and she goes still, the word she was about to say remaining stuck in the air between us.
A full-body shudder goes through her and I can’t help inhaling deeply, breathing in her orange blossom perfume mixed with her delicate natural scent.
Everything about her is delicate. Whether it’s her tiny features, her small frame, or her pale skin that can be bruised with a single press of my thumb against it.
For some reason, her softness always drags out the primal part of me, the part that needs to claim her every second of the day, then repeat it all over again.
The part that can’t get enough, no matter how many times I’ve fucked her, touched her, and made her scream my name.
Despite loving the feel of her writhing body beneath me and how she demands the roughness I give, I’m starting to think it’s not only due to the need to fuck her. Or else I wouldn’t have shown up here every single day for the past week.
I knew I shouldn’t have stayed when she asked me to. I shouldn’t have given in to the temptation of her gentle voice and her inviting warmth, but I did.
And now, I can’t force myself to leave.
I can’t bring myself to spend a single night without her wrapped around me as if I’m a lifeline. In a way, I’m thankful for her small sofa that only allows us to sleep when we’re glued together or she’s lying partially on top of me.
Now, I feel it again. The way she relaxes against me as if her little body belongs in the crook of mine. My jaw clenches as my dick begins tenting against my trousers, but I refuse to let him take rein this time. I refuse to bend her over the kitchen counter and take her rough and hard.
At least, not at this moment.
For some reason, I want to keep feeling her like this, in the silence, with her body so attuned to mine that we breathe in sync.