Page 169 of King of Pain
I Want to Know What Love Is
Anthony
I wake up wrapped in warmth and the kind of peace I didn’t think I’d ever feel again.
Little G is curled at the foot of the bed, and I’m tangled up in Chance. I’m facing him, tucked under one of his arms, our legs entwined in a perfect fit. His breath is slow and even as he sleeps and I lay still—listening, grounding myself in the calm that only his presence can provide.
I take advantage of the moment and study his face.
He looks younger when he sleeps. Or maybe it’s just softer, calmer. Like the weight he carries releases him for a few short hours. I reach up and gently trace the edge of one of the tattoos on the arm he has draped over me, letting my fingertips skim along the inked skin.
His other arm is a full sleeve of designs that come together to create a scene reminiscent of a post-apocalyptic underground bunker—or one of Freddy Kreuger’s high school steam rooms. It’s twisted, in a beautiful way.
But this arm is my favorite. The designs are simple, but fascinating. Tribal stripes wrap around his elbow and meld into more intricate designs crawling up his forearm, stopping abruptly at his wrist. All his ink is sexy, if I’m being honest. It’s a problem, really. There isn’t a part of Chance Sullivan that I can resist.
Last night replays in flashes.
The way we sat shoulder to shoulder at the kitchen island, Chance moaning over every bite of pasta like he hadn’t eaten in amonth. Guinness laying on the floor behind us, patiently waiting for a noodle to fall off one of our forks. Then we curled up on the couch trading bites of Chance’s favorite lemon ice cream I had delivered and watching ‘80s movies until I couldn’t help myself—started kissing him just below the ear, right where his jaw meets his neck.
Note to self: that spot drives him crazy.
Which is how we ended up tangled in these sheets, with Chance proving once again his mouth was made for sin.
Yeah. I want more nights like that.
And mornings like this.
Chance stirs beneath me, eyes fluttering open, and when he sees me, a slow, devastatingly beautiful smile spreads across his face.
“I could get used to this,” he murmurs, voice still thick with sleep. He lifts a hand and brushes his knuckles across my cheek. “Having you in my space.”
“Me too,” I whisper, leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to his lips.
He looks down toward the foot of the bed. “Both of you.”
Little G chooses that exact moment to stretch, thump his tail, and yawn dramatically.
Chance grins, pushes the covers back, and hops out of bed—completely naked and on full display. He stretches, arms above his head, the muscles beneath his skin putting on a show.
He’sputting on a show.
Because he knows I’m watching.
“Yeah, I could definitely get used to this.” I mutter to myself, shaking my head.
Chance turns his head over his shoulder, one brow raised. “I can feel your eyes on me, baby.”
I roll over and smack his perfect ass. “What do you expect, walking around with an entire bakery back there?”
He throws his head back and laughs, rich and loud. Then I drop my voice, low and sultry. “And I’m starving.”
Chance groans, grabs a pair of sweats off the chair and slides into them a bit dramatically. “If I didn’t know Little G needs to go out right now, you’d be in big trouble.”
I grin and wave him off. “Go on. I’ll make coffee and get his food ready.”
He grumbles something that sounds an awful lot like “brat” and pulls an Erasure T-shirt over his head, leans down, presses a kiss to my lips, and calls to Little G.
As they head out of the room, I lie back against the pillows, heart full, and think—Yeah, I really could get used to this.
