My strength has grown so stupendously over the past three days that I almost pull the door from the hinges when I yank it open.
“If you’vefinallycome for your things, you’re too late. I already donated them. A charity worker is collecting them first thing tomorrow morning.” My sentence ends with a hiccup, my body as equally nervous as it is excited when I realize the person standing on the other side of the door isn’t my cheating, low-life, soon-to-be ex. It is the man I am confident can make me forget him with nothing but a smirk. “Nero… Um. Hello.”
While opening the door, wordlessly welcoming him into my home, I give my head a stern talking to. I’m not a blubbering underage idiot with no life experience. I am an independent woman… who could come just by looking at this man’s deliriously handsome face.
Jesus, Mir. Get a grip!
After swishing my tongue around to encourage some wetness for the fire in my throat, I say, “Come in. Please.”
I bite back a moan when he accepts my offer. He smells delicious, his scent a mixture of danger and tranquility. It is stronger than the goodies I’ve been baking over the past several hours and has me suddenly starving.
“That’s Tempy,” I introduce when she pops up on her hind legs to welcome Nero with half a dozen spins and paw waves. “She’s a little starved of attention.”
A deliciously immoral shiver rolls down my spine when Nero laughs while dragging his hand over Tempy’s head. He tickles under her chin with his chunky tattooed fingers, making my skin slick with envy.
I squeeze my thighs together while recalling how wonderous his fingers are, now too feeling starved of attention I had no clue I craved so desperately until now.
6
NERO
The reason for my visit slips my mind when Miranda guides us toward her kitchen. She’s dressed casually in leggings that show off every inch of her curves and an oversized shirt that does a shit job of covering up said curves since it is knotted in the middle of her stomach.
She’s shoeless and sockless, and even if I hadn’t heard her declaration while she ripped her door from its hinges, I’d still be aware she has no intention of taking back her cheating spouse.
Anything non-girlie and bulky has been packed and stored next to the entryway table. If the singe marks on the lawn, and the spitfire stubbornness in her eyes, are anything to go by, anything small and perishable is now soot.
My butterfly is still soaring high.
“Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Water?” Miranda spins to face me, wafting a scent that is uniquely her. “Japanese whisky?”
When I shake my head, she shrugs before she downs a healthy mouthful from a bottle that retails in the high three hundreds.
With the twitching of her nose announcing the tingles racing across her plump lips, she checks the denseness of a yellow batter in a mixing bowl before switching off the mixer and transferring the ingredients into a circular pre-prepared cake tin.
“I bake when…” Lines sprout across her nose when her expression tightens into an adorable scowl. “Iusedto bake when depressed. It doesn’t feel right saying that now.”
When she gestures for me to sit across from her, I slip onto a backless stool without protest. I don’t usually take orders—I give them. But something about this woman has me acting differently. Less murderous.
I could play it off as if I’m mellowing as I age, but that would be a copout. I wasn’t mellow when I popped a bullet into a thug’s head because he thought he could outsmart the Popovs’ head hacker by doctoring the IP address of the company profiting from Miranda’s metamorphosis. And I wasn’t chill when I realized how many people had seen images of Miranda and me in varying arrays of undress.
For the most part, in the X-rated exposé, Miranda is covered. I was too up in her business to allow inches upon inches of her skin to be left without the attention of my hands, mouth, and cock, but the portions of her body you could see, and her expression when she orgasmed, turned my heart to stone.
I want to be the only man privileged to see them, and you can be certain I’ll murder anyone who dares to look after me.
I’ll track them down, every single one of the fools who have seen the footage, but I figured I should give the lady of the hour a heads-up on her recent surge in popularity before she finds out from someone other than her co-star.
“Help yourself,” Miranda offers when she mistakes my moment of contemplation as desperation to sample one of the many baked goods on her kitchen counter. “There’s more here than I could ever eat.”
She mutters something under her breath, but I miss what she says. I can’t hear a thing over the moan that rumbles up my chest when I pop a weird-looking rice bubble slice into my mouth. It tastes like heaven and sin—an equivalent of the flavors of its creator’s pussy.
“That…” I stop talking, too busy stuffing another slice into my mouth to continue. “Mm.”
Miranda’s grin makes my dick ache. “Ferrero Rocher slice”—she places down a similarly sized slice, but it is yellow instead of chocolatey brown and has shredded coconut on top—“is the perfect accompanier for a lemon coconut slice. The mix of sweet and sour and smooth and tarty is…”
She puckers her lips, and all I can think about is having them circling my cock.
I missed the chance when her confidence dipped to a point I couldn’t ignore, but I’m not disappointed. Her pussy tastes godly, faultlessly matching her thoughts on her baked treats.
