Murder_ A Sinful Secrets Romance - Ella James Page 0,118

stares at me without expression for a few long seconds, and then speaks slowly, thoughtfully. “I don’t think you need to be saved. Maybe just fed and occasionally cuddled.” She finds her smile again, and she looks confident and beautiful. “I don’t expect you to confess to that, of course. Not Mr. Secret Agent GI Joe.”

I arch my brows and give her a damning stare—100 percent jest, not that she can likely tell. “Now whose feelings are being stomped on?”

“Fine.” She laughs. “I guess GI Joe does seem a little…tacky and stereotypical when you really think about the name. We’ll shorten that to Mr. Secret Agent.”

“Not so secret.”

“True,” she murmurs, smiling her cute, lopsided smile.

“You haven’t asked me more about it.”

She winks. “All in good time, soldier boy.”

I can’t help wondering if she’s avoiding all talk of my past because she knows I’m so fucked in the head.

That gnaws on me as she gets our plate and slides down off the bed. “You want to make something, or watch me? Or maybe skip the baking and watch TV?” I bring my eyes up to meet hers. “I bet you’re behind on a lot of shows.”

I nod. “I’ve seen some from start to finish and others not at all. Like Game of Thrones. Never seen, but I’ve read the books.”

“We have to fix that, then. If I’m up to reliving the soul-crushing angst.”

I slide down off the bed behind her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as we shuffle toward the kitchen. “You pick the show. I’ll watch anything but the Kardashians.” I give her a sideways smile.

“No reality TV for you?”

I shake my head.

“It’s not my thing so much either. Would you eat cake if I wanted to make one?”

“I guess if I had to,” I sigh, and Gwenna bumps my shoulder. More my arm, really, given our height difference.

“I was thinking you could get another hour of sleep before we really go to sleep. For me, if I’m less tired, I snap out of it quicker.” It meaning nightmares, I assume.

“Been thinking on it?”

“Yeah.” Her cheeks flush as we walk behind the couch. “You can tell me to shut up. You heard the Myers-Briggs. I’m the…advocating type.” She winces, and I chuckle.

“What does this have to do with cake?”

She slides me a guilty look. “I thought the sugar might make you sleepy.”

I can’t help a low hoot. “Gwenna…” I laugh as she hangs her head.

“Go on,” she says, looking rueful. “Tell me to bug off.”

I wrap my hands around her waist and pull her back against me, kissing her neck. I groan as my cock swells against her lower back. “Please don’t.”

I shut my eyes as I hold her to me. The sweet scent of her shampoo seems to fuzz my senses. Somewhere very far away, I hear my conscience urging me to get away from her, but it’s too late now. Those stern words are whispered. Her body is so soft and warm. Her hands are careful, gentle, reaching back around to stroke from my hips down my thighs. Illogically, they seem to know me. What I need and what I like.

“Gwen…” Her fingers reach for my dick.

“Yes?” The word soft and sinuous.

I blink at her coppery hair as words rise up within me. They float to the bottom of my throat, and I can’t seem to let them out. My mind is racing. Pulse is racing. Gwenna’s hands are smooth on my pants. My cock is squeezed between our bodies. How do I tell her? And I realize that I can’t. I can tell her nothing, so I whisper, “That feels good.”

TWENTY THREE

BARRETT

On the kitchen floor, with the lights on and the TV droning in the background, I come faster than I ever have, and she is right behind me, laughing. I laugh too. I don’t know why. It doesn’t matter.

Afterward, I wash our dinner plate as Gwen lines up bowls and utensils for making something she calls Guinness cake.

I arch my brows, skeptical, and she tells me all about the beer-based layered cake and how to make it, pulling ingredients from the pantry and the refrigerator and assembling them on the counter like a little army.

I can’t help admiring her from every angle. The way her hair shines like a penny when she turns her head. The awkward way she lifts her shoulder to try to scratch her cheek while her hands are flour-covered. I watch her hands bend as she cracks eggs into a bowl.