Page 39 of Reaper & the Lioness
“Can you get the minced garlic out of the fridge and add a teaspoon to the pan?” I asked Eva, my hands busy slicing chicken into even strips.
Eva brushed against me as she moved past, the brief contact sending a jolt through my system. Her eyes flicked to mine as she gauged my reaction. I kept my expression neutral, but my pulse quickened.
She rummaged through a drawer, found a spoon, then moved to the refrigerator. I watched from the corner of my eyeas she dipped the spoon into the garlic container, eyeballing the measurement before flicking it into the sizzling pan. The pungent aroma intensified in seconds.
“Damn it. That’s easily a tablespoon,” I growled, more amused than annoyed.
She smirked. “Garlic is best measured with your heart.”
This woman was as infuriating as she was adorable. I bit back a smile, not wanting to encourage her.
“You like to cook?” she asked, moving a few ingredients to the side as she hoisted herself on the counter. Hawk sat at her feet, gazing at her with hopeful eyes.
“Yeah, I enjoy it,” I admitted, focusing on the pan to avoid getting lost in her gaze. “I cooked dinner every night from the time I was thirteen to when I left for boot camp. Linc is five years younger, and our mom worked long hours as a nurse. My choices were either learn to cook or eat microwave dinners every night.”
Eva hesitated, reading between the lines. “What about your dad?”
I scraped the chicken into the pan. “Sentenced to life when I was twelve. Piece of shit of a human being.”
After washing my hands, I turned toward her and stepped closer. “What about your parents?” I asked, curious to hear her version of the story.
“My dad was in the military, and my mom got tired of moving around, so she left him. Then, we moved in with my dad after she died. My brother, Jace, was only around for a year before he enlisted. My dad trained military working dogs. That’s how I got into fostering. I like volunteering to take on working breeds. I understand them.”
The vulnerability in her voice drew me in closer. “I’m sorry about your mom. That must have been hard.”
A mask slid into place in an instant. It became clear Eva still didn’t speak about the grief and trauma, even after two decades.
“Thank you,” she said in a curt tone. “Besides cooking, what else are you good at?”
A line drawn. A topic closed. She spun the conversation back to me with practiced ease.
“Motorcycles. Guns. Construction.”
Her eyes glinted with that sharp, suggestive edge I’d become all too familiar with. “So, you’re saying you’re good with your hands?”
Her flirtation never came across as subtle. There was always a challenge in it. A taunt and an awareness of the buttons she pushed, daring me to react. The woman was relentless. Always pushing, always testing. It both maddened and aroused me.
I’d battled a war within myself since the night I’d pinned her against that hallway wall at the clubhouse. My logical side recognized her as a distraction I didn’t need.
But my primal instincts, the part of me craving a challenge and release, fought against my control. And goddamn, did I want to give in. I wanted to prove how easily I could shatter her cool composure. I teetered on the edge of a fucking cliff and knew I couldn’t resist any longer.
I stepped in front of her and brushed my fingers against her knees. “I am very good with my hands.”
The statement came out as a promise, threat, and challenge all rolled into one.
Eva’s breath hitched. “Prove it.”
I ran my fingers in slow circles on the insides of her thighs, starting right above the knees and moving upward. My lips grazed hers in a soft, teasing kiss.
I pulled back and searched her eyes for consent. Eva’s gaze was a dare. An invitation to take it further. I spread my palms at the top of her thighs, pressing her legs apart as I leaned in tocrush my lips against hers once again. I slid my hands under her top, savoring the softness of her skin. Breaking the kiss, I pulled the shirt over her head, then unclasped her bra. I took a moment to admire her, the curve of her breasts, the way her nipples hardened under my gaze. Eva arched her back, and a low moan escaped her lips as I took one nipple into my mouth while rolling the other between my fingers. I kissed her chest and neck as my hands moved to the waistband of her skull leggings. She lifted her hips, allowing me to pull them down—along with her lacy black thong.
“Wait,” she breathed, her voice husky.
I stopped, surprised. I didn’t think I’d misread the signals. Even now, her body vibrated with every touch.
“What’s your actual name?”
I hesitated for a moment. I rarely used my real name anymore. I’d been known as Reaper since boot camp, and it had become my road name once I’d joined the Mavericks.
