the pleasure center of my brain. A rush of dopamine floods through me and I laugh, my mouth full.
I don’t even hear the door open, or footsteps, or anything before a voice makes me jump.
“What the fuck?”
I turn around and I see her. The girl from the photos. Dark, almost black hair—it’s messy, and she has a big red mark across her forehead. She arches her eyebrows, staring at me.
“I said, what the fuck? What are you doing?”
I chew, looking her up and down. She’s wearing jeans—faded and ripped on the thighs—and a plain white t-shirt. A leather jacket is slung over her arm, and she’s carrying a tiny backpack. In the other hand, she has a helmet, and the mark on her forehead makes sense.
I swallow. “I’m eating a cinnamon bun.”
Her cheeks flush as her eyes flick to the empty plate behind me. Her lips—blood red, with the bottom lip slightly fuller than the top one and an exaggerated cupid’s bow—are perfect. I want to taste them, too. Her eyes flash with anger, and my cock twitches.
“Did you eat them all?” Flinging her bag, jacket, and helmet on the kitchen island, she stomps over to me. The girl stares at the plate and then back at me. I catch that smell again—fresh and sweet and feminine. Desire twinges in the pit of my stomach.
I grin. “They were delicious.”
Her plump red lips fall open and she shakes her head. “All of them? I was looking forward to one of those in the morning.”
“So? Just buy more.”
“I made them, you knucklehead.” The girl stares at me, eyes blazing, and all I want to do is bend her over the kitchen counter and drive my cock into her. I want to make those cheeks even redder as she screams my name. I want to grab fistfuls of her ebony hair and twist it as she comes all over my cock.
I take a step toward her, suddenly keenly aware that I’m still not wearing a shirt. She seems to realize that at the same time, her eyes drifting over my chest.
I lift a finger up, brushing it over her soft, round cheek. She stares up at me, unmoving, as if she’s frozen on the spot—just as she did outside when she watched me with Margot. The tension grows between us. Her lips call out to me, begging to be kissed. Her body is soft, and supple, and exactly what I need right now.
But it’s her eyes that make me want her. One is blue, and the other one is a pale green color, and they’re both full of pain and hardship and complicated history.
“Your eyes are different colors,” I say in a gravelly voice.
She snaps out of her stupor and jerks away from me. “Keenly spotted, Sherlock. Got any other revelations for me?”
Reaching behind me, the girl grabs the plate that used to have cinnamon buns on it. Her arm brushes against my side, and the blush on her cheeks deepens. She keeps her gaze averted, taking the plate to the dishwasher without sparing me a glance.
I grin. “Are you embarrassed that I’m not wearing a shirt? You can look, if you want. You can even touch. I won’t bite…unless you want me to.”
Finally, she lifts her eyes up to me. “First of all, ew. Second of all, I’m not in the habit of having my sister’s sloppy seconds, but thanks.”
“That’s disappointing.”
Her blush extends up to her hairline, up to the fading red mark on her forehead.
“What’s your name?” I inch closer to her.
She closes the dishwasher, throwing me a disgusted glance. “Ivy.”
“Ivy,” I repeat, tasting her name on my tongue. “Maybe I should call you Poison, because you’re killing me standing there like that.”
That dumb line makes her stare at me, and a surprised laugh falls through her lips. She shakes her head as I take another step toward her.
I need her. I need to feel her skin under my palms. I need to taste her, kiss her, make her mine. I need those two-toned eyes to drink me in, and I need to hear her moan in my ear.
Ivy’s jaw juts out and her eyebrow arches. “Do those stupid lines actually work?”
“You tell me.” I erase the distance between us, sweeping my arm around her back. My other hand runs up her delicate neck, cupping her cheek. I run my thumb over her red lips, dragging it across her full lower lip. Her breath teases the edge of my finger, and