Page 62 of Sweet Addiction
I kinda do. You two are hot as hell together.
Ryker
Aren’t you a kinky little surprise?
Kaleigh
You have no idea.
Lilah
Okay, you all have your homework. Read chapter eighteen, and we’ll discuss.
DILLAN
Listen, I’m not being mean.
I’m simply no longer going out of my way to make you comfortable with my actions.
—Dillan’s Secret Thoughts
The flame flickers on the maple butter candle that burns on the table next to me. The same scent that’s been burning since the day after Rome and I spent the night together two years ago. The same day I wrote the prologue ofA Crown of Stars and Ruin. The Prologue seemed to write itself that day. I opened a new Word document, ignoring the old one I’d been working on, and started typing without even plotting. It worked that day.
Some days, words flow from my fingertips like my computer is an extension of my mind, and these characters that live there are just demanding I tell their story in vibrant, vivid color and heartbreakingly, beautifully broken detail. The rich hues of theleaves crunching under their boots along the floor of the cold forest before the first snowfall. The metallic clash of heavy sword against sword. The painful final embrace before brothers are pitted against one another. A love torn painfully between two men. A woman forced to choose between her heart and the kingdom she’s grown to love.
Those days are my favorites.
I’ve learned that rainy days tend to be my most productive writing days. Something about the dreary weather and the rhythmic tap of the rain against the window speaks to my muse. The storm brewing outside gave me hope today would be one of those days. The kind I love. The kind that let me feel a little less like an imposter.
Apparently, not all rainy days are equal, though, and productive is the opposite of how I’m feeling today. No matter how many times I reread the same paragraph, I simply have no idea what words come next. It doesn’t matter that I have each chapter of this book plotted out in my favorite hardbound, college-ruled notebook sitting beside me, having realized halfway through book one that I was going to have to get real familiar with plotting if a trilogy was going to work. Or that myA Crown of Stars and Ruinplaylist is shuffling on repeat, my maple butter candle burning, and my coffee is hot and sweet in my hand. Nothing is helping because my muse is a gigantic twat waffle. At least today she is.
My editor is a saint. One I’ve known most of my life, who was as excited to work on this trilogy as I was to write it, but even she’s going to murder me if I don’t finish this book soon.
A notification pops up on the computer screen, and I silence it, cursing myself, my choices, and my stupidly hot fake fucking boyfriend because it’s time to get ready for the Black & White Ball. In just the few weeks I’ve been living here, I’ve basically taken over Rome’s office. Not hard since I’ve only seen him inhere when he’s looking for me. Which, thankfully, means it only takes a few minutes to clean up the space, especially as the song changes and Marshmello and Jelly Roll begin singing about holy water, and I send up a silent thank-you to my mother for the amazing noise-canceling wireless headphones she gave me for Christmas. They make it so much easier to ignore my psycho... At least that’s what I’m telling myself I’m doing, because there’s no way I’m hiding. Nope. That’s not happening.
I’m not hiding from the feelings that flicker to life like my candle at the first strike of the lighter each time he smiles my way. I don’t need to hide from that—from him—because that would mean I’ve forgotten what an absolute ass Rome Beneventi is, and I will not let myself forget that, no matter how tempting that damn smile is.
Pushing those thoughts aside, I make my way up the open stairs to the loft and smile at the perfectly made bed. Who would have figured Rome would be the neat freak of the two of us. Definitely not me, but he’s the one who makes the bed each day. He also picks up the clothes I leave on the floor next to the bed. Clothes I’d probably put in a hamper if I were in my own home. But half of what’s making this entire agreement—if you can call it that—bearable is driving him as crazy as he’s driving me. So yes, pissing off Rome has been moved to the top of my daily to-do list, and leaving my clothes on the floor seems to do that quite nicely.
A smile tugs at my lips as I slide off my socks and leggings and add them to the growing pile, wishing I didn’t have to wash my hair. Maybe...? I look in the mirror and shake my head.
Who am I kidding? I might not want to go to this thing tonight, but I’m absolutely vain enough to want to look so good that I bring the psycho to his knees. Guess I’m washing my hair.
Kinda wishing that didn’t make my smile grow, but it does. Oh well, one more thing to tuck away into the little box whereI attempt to shove everything that stresses me out. It’s getting a little crowded in there. Might be time for a bigger box.
Humming as I pad across the plush carpet, I push the bathroom door open and stop moving. I stop thinking for that matter too. I’m not even sure I’m still breathing, but my eyes are definitely working, and holy fucking hell, my hormones are too.
Oh . . .
Rome stands like a Greek god in the shower. His head bent and dark hair falling in his gorgeous face as water sluices over it. Steam billows around him as hot water from four body sprays and three shower heads beat down over his delicious body. Beautiful ink wraps around corded muscle. So much muscle. One hand planted on the marbled tile wall in front of him, and the other fisted around his massive cock.
Toned, tan skin moves... muscles flexing with every stroke of his hand.
His mouth opens and closes, and I want to rip my headphones off so I can hear the sounds falling from those lips.
My God, my mouth waters, and my pussy throbs in time with my pulse.
He’s... incredible. Like a statue carved from stone by an ancient Renaissance artist in an old Italian city, only bigger. Better. More beautiful.
