Page 46 of Dash

He steps over the threshold, cupping my face and kissing me as if it’s been six hundred years last saw each other.

I forget about my mother, about lasagna. I melt into his touch, gripping the front of his kutte as he claims my mouth like he’s always owned it. All the tension, all the anger and frustration bleeds out of me as he slides his tongue against mine.

Then his hand presses to my belly, guiding me inside, and I hear the door shut behind him before he pushes me up against the wall.

This man might be the death of me, and I’d welcome the end.

He grips my hip like a lifeline as he takes what he wants from me, and I let him.

I’d take anything he offers, and I don’t give a fuck how desperate that sounds.

When he pulls back, his eyes are blown black, heated, and my stomach is fluttering wildly.

“You look good, beautiful.”

It’s such a contrast to the venom my mother spat at me that it makes me flinch. He notices, squeezing my hip. But I clear my throat as if nothing happened.

“You look pretty handsome yourself. Though I guess it’s easy to look hot when you come preloaded this way.”

His gaze crawls my face, as if looking for wounds beneath the skin. He won’t find them. I keep them well hidden.

“You okay?”

I want to tell him about my fucking run-in with my mother, but we’re not there yet. He might embrace my brand of crazy, but I’m not sure he’s ready for Evelyn Harrington.

“Do you want good news or the bad news?”

He presses a kiss to my forehead, and I melt a little more. I swear this man was sent to unravel me. “Both.”

“Okay. Bad news first. I turned dinner into a modern art project. Unless you want to eat charcoaled cheese and singed basil, lasagna is off the menu.”

I brace, waiting for his response. For his disappointment. “What’s the other news?”

“I may have a packet of pasta in the back of the cupboard somewhere, so we can still have something Italian.”

His eyes roam my face. “You got any boots?”

I blink. “What kind of boots? Is this a kink? Because I’m not judging, but there are some lines I won’t cross. Though should’ve known you were into something weird. You’re too perfect to be real. Makes sense you’d get off on someone stomping in boots along your spine.”

He stares at me for a beat. “Your brain is truly fucking terrifying sometimes. No, it’s not a kink. Do you have boots or not?”

“I have like, six different types. Ankle boots, calf-length, knee-high. Ones with zips, ones with buckles. You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“Why do you have that many? You know what, it doesn’t matter. Just something that covers the bottom part of your leg and supports your ankles.”

This time I’m the one eyeing him. “Are you sure this isn’t a kink?”

“Babe, put the boots on. And a warm jacket if you have one.”

I head into my bedroom and in the back of the wardrobe find a pair that I think will be perfect for what he is asking. I sit on the edge of the bed to pull them on, making sure my jeans are tucked inside them. How the fuck did we go from burned lasagna to boots?

I shake my head. Who cares?

I grab a short black jacket from the hook on my door, shrugging into it.

I find Dash in the kitchen, peering down at the lasagna like it’s a science experiment.

“You want to try a bit?” I ask, wrapping my arms around him from behind, plastering my face to his back.

---