Devoured - Cathryn Fox Page 0,12

my arm, and that’s when I realize just how close I’ve pulled her, just how nicely her body fits with mine.

“I... I don’t really trust too many people, Roman,” she admits, a heaviness overtaking her as her eyes narrow, and I could kick myself. I didn’t mean to dredge up demons from her past.

I give her a comforting squeeze before I pull my arm back. “I know. I don’t either,” I say, not wanting her to feel alone in this. “Not anymore, anyway.”

She shakes her head, a bit of the tightness in her muscles gone. “I guess that’s one thing we have in common.”

“What a pair we make. You’ll cook for me, then?”

She waves one hand around the long hallway. “You’re here in Malta, away from your work, your friends and your beloved New York, helping me get a job. Cooking is the least I could do, don’t you think?”

“It’s a nice break from reality for a while and for the record, none of this is a hardship, Peyton.” Nope, not a hardship at all. But that’s not to say it’s not hard, and when I say hard, I’m talking about my dick, of course.

She laughs. “Funny, Carly said something like that to me yesterday. She also told me I should be exercising my marital rights, pretend marriage or not.” As soon as the words leave her mouth, her eyes widen. “I didn’t mean... I wasn’t suggesting we should do that.” She gives a fast shake of her head. “That was before I even knew it was you, anyway.”

“You mean you considered it before you knew it was me.”

“No,” she blurts out, a little too quickly. With the tip of her finger she pokes my chest and I wish to God she’d stop touching me. “Now that I do know, that’s not happening. Ever.”

“Yeah, we’re not going to do that,” I agree. I’m only going to think about doing it, repeatedly, while using my hand.

She exhales, and that’s when I realize how weary she looks. She pushes her hair from her face. “I don’t even know why I said it.”

“You’re tired,” I say, giving her an out.

“You’re right. So why do you hate cooking?” she asks, redirecting the conversation. “You’re Italian. Aren’t all Italians supposed to be great cooks? Or is that a cliché?”

I laugh. “I grew up with five older sisters, Peyton. I couldn’t get near the kitchen. Not that I wanted to. I was busy with sports anyway.”

She nods, and a small, little-girl-lost smile touches her mouth. “That must have been so nice, Roman. I love my brother, dearly, but I always kind of wanted a sister, too. There was this one place...” Her voice falls off and a deep sadness invades her eyes. My gut twists, and it’s all I can do not to pull her into my arms. She shakes herself out of her reverie and says, “Anyway, all those sisters. It must have been awesome.”

“Are you kidding me?” I ask as she inches toward the bigger bedroom, stopping outside the door. “I had to set my alarm for three in the morning just to get some bathroom time.”

She laughs. A sweet melodic sound that strokes my dick. “That does sound horrible,” she says.

“Don’t even get me started on the makeup and hair products. Everywhere, Peyton. Everywhere. In my cereal, on my soap, on my clothes. Do you have any idea how many girls accused me of cheating on them?”

Her brow arches playfully. “A lot, huh?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say a lot.” I grin. “A few, maybe.”

She lifts herself up to her full height and squares her shoulders. “Well, you’ll be happy to know, I’m not high-maintenance. I promise no hair on your soap, in your cereal or on your clothes.”

What about in my bed?

Nope. Nope. Don’t go there.

Before I can think better of it, I reach out and run a long strand of her silky soft hair through my fingers. My knuckles brush her cheek, and her chest rises with her fast intake of breath. “It’s okay, I’ve gotten used to it over the years.” I laugh as I think about that. “I think you’d really like my sisters.”

“Really?”

I nod. “Yeah, you’re kind of annoying like they are.” Her mouth drops open and she whacks my chest. I snatch her hand before she can pull it back. “Kidding,” I say, and brush my thumb over her wrist.

She shakes her head. “I do talk a lot sometimes, I know,” she says.

“I don’t hate it, Peyton.” My gaze