ious folds her arms
and smacks her lips in disgust.
“Why’s it still on there?”
“Why’s it still on there?”
“I quite like the song. But if it offends you I’ll remove
it.”
“No, it’s fine. I like to cook to music.”
“What would you like to hear?”
“Surprise me.”
He smirks at me and heads over to the iPod dock
while I go back to my whisking.
Moments later the hea一venly sweet, soulful voice of
Nina Simone fills the room. It’s one of Ray’s fa一vorites: “I
Put a Spell on You.”
I flush, turning to gape at Christian. What is he trying to
tell me? He put a spell on me a long time ago. Oh my . . .
his look has changed, the levity gone, his eyes darker,
intense.
I watch him, enthralled as slowly, like the predator he
is, he stalks me in time to the slow sultry beat of the music.
He’s barefoot, wearing just an untucked white shirt, jeans,
and a smoldering look.
Nina sings, “you’re mine” as Christian reaches me, his
Nina sings, “you’re mine” as Christian reaches me, his
intention clear.
“Christian, please,” I whisper, the whisk redundant in
my hand.
“Please what?”
“Don’t do this.”
“Do what?”
“This.”
He’s standing in front of me, gazing down at me.
“Are you sure?” he breathes and reaching over, he
takes the whisk from my hand and places it back in the
bowl with the eggs. My heart is in my mouth. I don’t want
this—I do want this—badly.
He’s so frustrating. He’s so hot and desirable. I tear
my gaze away from his spellbinding look.
“I want you, Anastasia,” he murmurs. “I love and I
hate, and I love arguing with you. It’s very new. I need to
know that we’re okay. It’s the only way I know how.”
“My feelings for you ha一ven’t changed,” I whisper.
His proximity is overwhelming, exhilarating. The
familiar pull is there, all my synapses goading me toward
him, my inner goddess at her most libidinous. Staring at the
patch of hair in the V of his shirt, I bite my lip, helpless,
driven by desire—I want to taste him there.
He’s so close, but he doesn’t touch me. His heat is
warming my skin.
“I’m not
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