The Man Who Has No Love (Soulless 3)

“Miss your frozen burritos?” he teased.

I gave him another sour look. “No. But they aren’t as bad as you think.”

“If you knew what was inside them, you might feel differently about that…”

“I’m a burrito girl, no matter what.”

He chuckled and gave my ass a playful tap. “Burrito girl… That’s cute, baby.”

I kept washing the dishes, but I did inhale a breath when I heard what he’d called me. It’d been so long since he’d used that nickname. He used to say it in my dreams, but that always made me feel worse, because I woke up in the middle of the night crying. Now, he said it effortlessly, like he didn’t even need to think about it.

My hatred for Dr. Hawthorne hadn’t died away, even though she’d done nothing I wouldn’t do. Her only crime was wanting my man, and I couldn’t exactly blame her for that. But she was a brilliant, hot piece of ass, so I hated her. But he was mine—and would never call her baby—so I shouldn’t care.

I finished the dishes then washed my hands and patted them dry with the linen cloth. “That wasn’t so bad.”

“You did pretty well—for your first time.”

I stayed at the sink and looked at him, wanting to live in this moment forever. It felt right, like we’d been doing this for years, like we hadn’t been apart for months. It was easy to picture my future with him, doing the dishes every night, watching Derek grow up, being Deacon’s wife. His money was nothing compared to his smile. His looks were nothing compared to his heart. I felt like the luckiest woman in the world to have him, to find him in this cold and cruel world.

He seemed to recognize my change of mood because he mirrored me.

I straightened because I’d been slightly hunched over the sink, and I looked at him, wishing there were words to describe my happiness in a way I hadn’t already. Just having a piece of him was better than having all of every man I’d ever been with. I didn’t mention Jake because I’d forgotten about the incident the second I came home. Everything outside this condo, outside the two of us, didn’t matter.

His arms lowered from his chest, and then one hand slipped into my hair, his fingertips grazing my cheeks as he pulled the strands off my face, his touch warm against my neck, my ear, my skin.

I immediately turned my cheek more completely into his palm, closing my eyes because I’d missed the way he used to touch me like this, missed how good it felt. His hugs were enough to comfort my pain, but I’d missed the physical intimacy we once shared, the passion, the desire between our two bodies.

He watched my reaction, his eyes turning dark in the process, becoming hot like a fire that just had another log thrown on. His fingers dug deeper into my hair as he moved in closer, his chest pressing to mine, his arm around my waist.

When I opened my eyes again, his lips were nearly on mine, just inches away. My eyes flicked to his, seeing him looking at me the way he used to, like he lived for these moments when we were connected without words, when he felt the same sensation at the same time without having to express it.

My arms circled around his neck and I pulled him into me, unable to wait for him to kiss me on his own, too anxious, too desperate. My lips landed on his, his mouth accepting mine like he’d been ready for it since the last time we kissed.

I kissed him at a slow pace, breathing hard into his mouth, feeling all those sensations rush back instantly. I desired him even more than I had before, wanted all of him right then and there. My fingertips dug into his hair, wrapping around the short strands, my breaths turning into pants.

His kiss matched mine, slow and purposeful, with the gentle exchange of tongue. For a man unable to connect with other people, he certainly knew how to kiss a woman. He was the best kisser I’d ever had, knew how to make it slow and sexy, how to make it quick and passionate.

He pulled away, his breaths audible, and looked at me.

I looked at him, seeing the hardness in his eyes, the way he looked at me possessively, like he wanted to bend me over so he could take me roughly. “Fuck.” He moved my back to the counter and kissed me again, this time harder, this time domineering. One hand grabbed my knee and lifted it so my ankle could hook over his waist, so he could grind his hard length against me, like there was any chance I couldn’t feel it before.