barely even hear my own words before they’re out.
“I was thinking of making breakfast actually,” I say. “I mean if you don’t mind. Maybe I could make you some too? You know, to say thanks for letting me stay.”
He turns back to me and again his eyes flit over me.
I imagine him mentally peeling away the bathrobe, revealing my bare skin, and somehow being delighted in what he finds.
In reality, I know that a man like Saul Sykes – a Formula One star, a muscular freaking goliath – could get women far more model-like than me.
But it doesn’t stop my mind from throwing up the possibilities.
His smirk twitches and he stands up straighter. Every inch of him roars with power, like a silverback gorilla beating his chest to mark his territory. But it’s more subtle than that, more of an undertone, as though he won his territory decades ago and is now free to do whatever – or whoever – he wants.
Being held by him would be like being cradled by a benevolent predator.
“I’ll never turn down a meal,” he says, his eyes burning into me.
Am I your meal, Saul?
I imagine all of this, of course, projecting my own desires onto him. Really he’s probably just being friendly, the same way he was just being friendly last night. If I were to reveal all my spinning thoughts to him now, the best response I could hope for is blank bemusement.
The worst would see me being kicked onto the snowy doorstep with him telling me to get the heck out of here.
“Right, great,” I say, rising to my feet and walking toward the door.
“Don’t you want to…” He trails off, eyes narrowed like a hunter. “Actually, never mind Sparkplug. After you.”
Sparkplug.
At least that confirms that I didn’t dream last night’s exchange.
I walk ahead of him, unwilling to look back in case some quality in his expression causes me to second guess all of this. It’s not as though this is some carefully thought out plan. I don’t even know why I made the offer, except for the chance to be close to him, to feel his stare, to smell his musky manly scent, and hear the growly huskiness of his voice.
I walk to the end of the hallway, stopping next to a hanging tapestry, and then turn left on a whim.
“Wrong way, Sparkplug,” Saul says, chuckling now.
“Oh, it’s funny?” I sass, spinning on him, unable to stop myself.
He stands a few feet away, hands hanging at his sides, ready to use, ready to own. Jasper sits at his feet, head tilted, as though he’s trying his best to interpret the conversation.
“No offense intended, Sadie,” he says. “It’s just too tempting to tease you. Your blushing face is just too sweet.”
“I do not blush,” I snap … blushing. “Now, if you’ll point me in the right direction, I may consider not poisoning your breakfast.”
“Well, in that case,” he growls. “I’ll have to watch you very carefully every step of the way.”
Our eyes meet. Is he thinking the same thing?
What are we doing? What does this mean?
I look to Jasper, the big lovable boy sitting there patiently. At least I have him as a buffer between us. It’s not like anything’s going to happen with him in the room, not that anything’s going to happen anyway.
But still.
Better safe than sorry.
Then Jasper grins, a little mischievously it seems to me, and paws regally past me and down the hallway.
“He’s taking himself for a walk,” Saul says, probably reading my confusion. “He does that around this time most days. He likes to walk the grounds. He’ll be back in an hour.”
“Oh,” I say.
So it’s just the two of us.
And I’m in my bathrobe. I think back to just now when Saul was going to say something but then stopped himself. Was that it? Maybe he wants me to be in my bathrobe.
“Which way, then?” I murmur.
Saul steps forward, waving a hand.
“I’ll show you,” he says in a husky tone.
I want him to show me, yes.
I want him to show me everything he has to offer. Even if I know it’s wrong, even if I know Fiona would go nuclear if she learned even one-tenth of the traitorous thoughts flooding my psyche.
Chapter Six
Saul
I sit at the kitchen bar, looking over the counter as Sadie turns the frying bacon with the spatula.
Sizzles fill the air, the extractor fan humming, but nothing sizzles and hums as persistently as the sensation in my manhood, a constant repeating flurry of