Page 70 of Desperate Crimes
He raises one dark brow, smirking like the devil that he is.
“Hungry, Princess?”
I feel the blush hit my cheeks before I can stop it. Hot and instant.
“Oh my God,” I mutter under my breath.
He moves toward the coffee pot, casual and smooth, like this is any other Saturday morning and I’m not some weird combination of hostage and houseguest.
He pours the dark liquid into a mug, doctors it, then turns and hands it to me.
It’s warm. Heavy. Familiar.
I take it, fingers brushing his, and bring it to my lips.
I sip.
And I freeze.
Two creams. One sugar.
Exactly how I take it.
My heart skips a beat.
The mug fits my hand like it was made for me.
Like everything here was.
I look up at him, and his expression is unreadable—except for the heat in his sapphire blue eyes.
That low, burning thing that simmers just under the surface every time he looks at me.
“You think I don’t know how you take your coffee, Princess?” he says, voice like smoke and sin.
“I think I’m afraid of how much you know,” I whisper.
His smile is slow. Dangerous.
But I don’t back away.
I sip again.
And wonder what the hell it says about me that I like it.
That I like him.
That I’m standing in the underworld with a mug in my hand, wondering if I’ve already given up heaven.
I look up at him, and there’s something dark and warm in his gaze.
Like a fire banked under a blue velvet sky.
He steps closer, and I swear the air around us changes—thickens.
My breath catches as his fingers brush along the line of my jaw, featherlight but sure, then drift down the side of my neck like he’s memorizing the feel of me.
Like I’m something precious.
