Page 73 of Billionaire's Sins
"Do it," he insists.
I lower my hands and scowl at him.
He simply folds his arms across his chest and glares at me.
Jerk.
I glower back, and his gaze simply intensifies. Hot, burning, overwhelming. The flesh between my legs throbs. Heat flushes my cheeks. I glance away, take a sip. And does the man move away? Of course, not. He waits until I tilt the glass and drink half its contents.
Satisfied, he sits down, pushes my untouched coffee mug toward me.
I reach for it, take a sip. The bitter taste of the java blooms on my palate. I sigh out my appreciation, take another sip. Dark, rich notes of chocolate, laced with a sweeter taste of honey, and in between, the characteristic bitterness of coffee flickers across my tongue. "It’s good." I blink up at him. "Which coffee grinds did you use?"
"The one you had in your coffee canister?"
"Oh." I glance down at the cup, take another sip. "You sure?"
"Yeah."
There’s an amused edge to his tone. I glance up to find his lips twitch.
"No need to make a national joke out of my question," I mutter. "It’s simply that the coffee tastes so much better than when I make it."
"It happens." He raises his shoulders. "When someone else cooks the same dish you do, they have a different touch, a unique way of assembling the ingredients, which will, therefore, be perceived differently by your taste receptors."
"Oh." I blink. "Are you a chef?"
His features close. "No."
He gets up, takes both our plates and the used cutlery over to the sink and begins to wash up.
"I can do—"
He glares at me over his shoulder, and I shut up. Of course, Mr. Growly Pants will do what he wants, when he wants. He finishes the washing up—returns for my now empty coffee cup—which he takes to the sink along with his, and washes that up too. He finishes drying them, puts them away—in the correct places on the shelves, then wipes the counter clean.
"Make yourself at home," I bite out. "In fact, why don’t you move in, while you’re at it?"
He pauses, then turns to me. "Not yet."
My jaw drops. "What do you mean, not yet? I don’t know you at all. You’re a complete stranger and—"
"My point exactly." He folds his arms across his impressive chest and his T-shirt stretches across those beautifully sculpted pecs. His biceps bulge, drawing my attention to his thick veiny forearms.
My throat dries. My tongue seems to be stuck to the roof of my mouth. All the moisture in my body has drained to that single pulsing point between my legs. I gulp. "What…" I clear my throat, "What are you trying to say?"
"That you are too innocent."
I laugh, "Trust me, if you knew what I’ve been up to, you wouldn’t say that."
His gaze narrows and color smears his cheeks. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. "What you have done or not done in the past is none of my business."
"Oh?"
He jerks his chin. "I am more concerned with the now, the present. The fact that you let me, a complete stranger, into your flat."
"You know what?" I scowl at him. "It’s time you left."
"Oh, believe me, I am. I have no intention of staying, now that I know you are safe."
