Splinters of You (Retired Sinners MC #1) - Anne Malcom Page 0,60

or cameras mounted around the house, I didn’t know, but he’d poured wine for me. It was a simple gesture. It shouldn’t have meant anything beyond what it was.

But it meant something.

It was expensive wine. I could tell that from the first sip. Though I wasn’t much of a wine connoisseur, I knew expensive things. Another surprise, like his tastefully decorated house, no spare machine parts, a Harley poster, or dirt anywhere. There was no way to pinpoint him.

Just like now. Cooking me a meal, pouring me wine without asking. Giving me three orgasms. Though I’d all but demanded the orgasms.

I expected him to speak. It was the time for talking, wasn’t it? Hot sex between two people who definitely hadn’t been planning on this.

But he didn’t.

He looked at me again, as I sipped my wine, leaning against the kitchen island with my hip. The way he looked at me had me being glad I hadn’t put my panties back on. But then he went back to cooking.

And I watched him. Sipping my wine, taking it all in. As someone who worked with words, I didn’t feel the need to speak them all the time. There was a very small amount of people that could be comfortable in silence. I already knew Saint was one of those people, but now, when there were probably many words to say, he said nothing.

I liked that a lot.

Liked him a lot.

Liked his house a lot.

The kitchen was clean. Most of the counters were uncluttered, except for a few wood chopping boards, a Kitchen Aid mixer—I made a mental note to ask him if he really baked—and a coffee maker that made me want to hit him on the head with the pan he was cooking in, render him unconscious, and steal it.

Mine was backordered. Because I was particular, fussy. I wanted the best of the best. And the best of the best was sitting on Saint’s counter, gleaming, while mine was another month away because the company only made a small amount.

He had money. That much was clear from the price tag on the coffee machine alone. But also from the rest of his appliances. Furniture. Art. Wine. The two steaks resting.

I liked men with taste. With money. Part of why I dated the “Todds” I did. Sure, a lot of them were threatened by my success, my talent, my name. But most of them had trust funds that faded even my wealth into obscurity. They knew how to order wine at restaurant. Had nice homes.

It wasn’t an admirable quality in me, but that didn’t matter.

With Saint, even being sure he lived in a shack in the woods, I was planning on sleeping with him. I hadn’t admitted that until now, but of course I had. Beyond the spark between us, he was waking me up. Waking my craft up.

I hadn’t thought he was even close to my type. Then again, Saint wasn’t a type. And if he was, I was pretty sure he was everyone’s type.

Glancing at his muscled back, parts scored and scratched from my nails, I had a strong urge to somehow mark my territory. I had never been jealous. Mainly because I didn’t have men to make me feel possessive enough over to be jealous. I knew a few of them cheated on me. None of them knew I cheated on all of them. But they wouldn’t have cared, beyond the blow to their ego and their image. They didn’t care about me.

Saint turned, two plates in his hands, piled with food.

I realized I hadn’t offered to help him cook. That was probably rude. But that was me. He looked confident, sure, in the kitchen. Two things I was not in the kitchen. He didn’t seem pissed I’d stood there and watched him do all the work.

“Now, I get why you starve yourself,” he said, really focusing on me for the first time since I came downstairs.

“I’m not gonna lie and say you don’t look good. That I don’t like it. Because I do. I know that. You know that.” He set the plates down on the kitchen island. The portions were the same.

He pressed his hip against the counter, facing me, not touching me. “But you’re gonna look better with meat on you. With health on you. Some soft edges. Because there are a lot of things in life that feel good but will lead to bad things.” He paused. He didn’t need to say that’s what we