Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 135442 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135442 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
Yeah.
A dirty-talker.
How did I get so lucky?
“I aim to please,” I mumbled.
I watched his eyes smile as I felt the same against my lips.
Then he said, “You’re gonna be takin’ that a lot too, sweetheart.”
“No complaints here.”
He chuckled.
Then he kissed me.
This wasn’t hard.
But it was wet and deep.
And sweet.
He ended it and pulled out, dipped to kiss my collarbone and then lifted his head over mine again and said, “Clean you up, then breakfast.”
I couldn’t help it.
I shivered again.
Most Doms, at least the good ones, were caretakers.
They looked after their toys.
And that was the only kind I liked.
Good to know Boone was that.
And he took care of me, exiting the bed, adjusting his shorts, lifting me off the bed and putting me to my feet (doing it sliding me along his tall, hard body, a nice touch).
He then took my hand and guided me to the bathroom.
He cleaned me.
He kissed me.
And then he handed me my toothbrush, loaded with paste.
I didn’t know if that last was a Dom thing, or a Boone thing.
But I was thinking it might be one and the same.
And I liked it all.
“Thanks, Boone,” I said.
He touched his lips to mine.
Then he turned on the faucet, bent over it and splashed water on his face.
And we were back.
And I was thinking we were that but stronger.
We hadn’t fucked it up.
We’d worked it out.
And now we were together again, in my bathroom.
Thank God.
Chapter Fifteen
A Knight’s Vow
Ryn
I set the plate of food I’d just prepared in front of Boone.
He looked at it.
He looked at me.
And at the expression on his face, I burst out laughing.
When I was finished, I told him, “That’s actually pretty good. Usually, I burn the hash browns.”
He indicated the plate with his long-fingered (thank you, God), strong-fingered (seriously, thank you, God) hand and asked, “Those aren’t burned?”
“They’re crispy.”
Boone grinned at me, but did it shaking his head, before he picked up his plate and fork.
He didn’t tuck in right away.
He said, “How about I take breakfast duty?”
At his words, I experienced an out-of-bed shiver.
I did because this was it.
If we didn’t fuck it up (totally), this was going to be us.
Boone on breakfast duty.
Boone loading my toothbrush (maybe).
Me burning the hash browns.
And being a smartass.
And his sweet little fuck (and yeah, that caused another shiver).
Also Boone picking up a plate of food I made him in order to eat it, even if, yeah, maybe the hash browns were a tad bit more than crispy.
This after I made him food, even though that wasn’t my favorite thing to do.
Us fighting.
It getting ugly (maybe).
Us understanding we wanted this badly enough, we’d find a way to make up, even if the path to that wasn’t pretty.
Just…
Us.
This was going to be us.
An us that was what I’d been scared about having.
No, terrified.
Because this was proving to be me—maybe, possibly, if I didn’t fuck it up (again)—getting all I’d ever really wanted.
At least when it came to a man.
In truth, it had always been really simple.
Just a good guy who got me.
All of me.
And liked what he got.
“Mom was busy, so I taught myself how to cook,” I told him after he forked up some eggs.
He didn’t eat them.
His expression changed.
I understood the change.
“Please,” I whispered, “nothing heavy. I need a break from heavy. I loved what you did to me this morning. I loved that you came to work things out last night. I love that you’re in my kitchen with me right now. Give me that. Just the goodness. Just for a little while, honey. Okay?”
“Okay, Rynnie,” he murmured, his eyes still locked to me, telling me he was giving me that, but only for a little while, then he shoved the eggs in his mouth.
“Good?” I asked, after he swallowed.
“Yeah,” he lied.
I grinned at him. “You are such a liar.”
He grinned back and me.
And then kept eating.
“Fair warning, Master mine,” I said, reaching out to take up my own plate. “I’m not into experimenting with spices and cruising the Internet for the best roasted chicken recipes…”
I trailed off because of the new look on his face.
“What?” I asked after that look
“Get over here,” he demanded.
At his tone, and the look, I walked the two steps we were separated in my kitchen.
He put his plate on the counter, lifted his hands and caught me on either side of my head.
I stared into his eyes.
They were heated.
Not in a bad way, like he was pissed.
In a good way.
A really good one.
Oh boy.
“What’d you just call me?” he asked softly.
“Uh…” I mumbled, mostly because I remembered what I called him, I was just not counting on his reaction, or my reaction to his reaction, both of which were strong.
“I’m that, baby, you get me?” he asked.
Oh, you could say I definitely got him after that morning.
Got him good.
In a number of ways.