The Princess (Filthy Trilogy 2)

“Get your pretty little ass over here, woman. Of course, I want you to come.”

Apparently, he doesn’t need space, and I round the chair, his hot stare watching my every move, pausing at the store bags to grab the pair of black slippers to match my robe that I remember spying when I grabbed it. Eric doesn’t move. He waits for me to close the space between us, lets his gaze slide down my body, and settle on my fluffy feet. I don’t know why he makes staring at slippers so damn sexy, but I’m wet again.

It’s ridiculous.

He’s ridiculously addictive.

He drags me to him and kisses me, heat pooling low in my belly, as he murmurs, “Maybe I’ll just eat you again.”

I’m officially tingling all over but for once with this man, I have willpower. “Not until you feed me and you. And we talk.”

“Hmmm well, we have plenty of time to talk, but food gives me more energy to do all the things I want to do to you.” He kisses my hand. “Come on. I’ll give you the grand tour, starting with the kitchen.”

My stomach growls and we both laugh. “I think starting with the kitchen is a good idea. What time is it anyway?”

He glances at his watch. “Early morning, which means we’ll be scavenging food from my fridge and pantry.”

“Morning. Wow. How did that happen? And thank God we slept some on the plane though I think I’m running on adrenaline, too.”

“We both are. We need to eat and get some sleep.”

“Any in TV dinners in the freezer? Because I’m not feeling breakfast food right now and that’s what I know how to cook.”

“TV dinners, huh?” He laughs as we cross his gorgeous open living area to enter the connected kitchen area. “Well, the good news is that I don’t have any TV dinners to torture you with.”

I stop at the living room side of the island while he rounds it and faces me. “What’s wrong with TV dinners?” I ask. “They make healthy, fast meals for one and that works for me. I am, after all, a single, working lady. All I need is a cat to make it perfect.”

He presses his hands to the counter, leaning in closer to me, his eyes warm, the turbulence I’d seen in them earlier, thankfully absent, at least for now. “You’re not single anymore,” he says. “You’ll figure that out soon.” His gaze lowers to my mouth, a naughty thought playing across his face before he gives me a wink. “I’d better feed you now.” He pushes off the island. “How about mac n cheese?”

“Mac n cheese? Yes, please. You have mac n cheese?”

“I always have a good ol’ box of Kraft handy.” He opens a cabinet and pulls out a box. “Though my mother wouldn’t approve. She, unlike me, was a cook and a baker. We lived on Walmart groceries, but she made them taste like Ritz Carlton room service.”

“Do you still have any of her recipes?” I ask, warmed by the way his eyes light when he talks about his mother.

“She kept them all in her head.” He cuts his stare and returns it. “Perhaps she had a little savant in her, herself.”

I feel his mood darkening with her memory, perhaps because that memory is tainted by his father, so I swiftly change the topic. “Well, Mr. Savant, you might know numbers, but can you follow a recipe? We need milk for the mac n cheese. Do you have any?”

“Do I have milk?” he asks incred

ulously and opens another cabinet with a collection of cereal boxes. “How can you even suggest otherwise? How else would I eat my breakfast that is often also my dinner?”

My gaze traces all his rippling muscles, inked to sexy perfection and I decide that his body is too hot for him to eat mac n cheese and cereal all the time, but I don’t say that. I’ll just show my appreciation later. “Well then,” I volunteer, “let me pretend to have cooking skills and boil the water.”

He laughs and it’s an easy, masculine laugh that slides under my skin, and seems to settle right there in a portion of my heart, just like the man. I like this side of him, the one that laughs and I think this is what he meant back in Denver when he talked about how different he is here. I see a glimpse of that part of him now. I think he needs the disconnect from the Kingstons right now.

I eagerly join him on the other side of the island to start my pot of water. Once the burner is on, he leans on the counter next to me, his blue eyes filled with mischief. “And you said you don’t cook.”

I laugh and he kisses me, his mood sobering as he says, “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me, too,” I whisper, my hand settling on his cheek as he rotates me to face him.

“Harper—”

His cellphone rings from his pants pocket where it’s apparently managed to land and he grimaces. “I’ll finish that sentence after we eat.” He snatches his phone and glances at the number. “Blake.” He answer the call, gives a brief greeting, and then starts walking, crossing the living room to stand at the window, which is far enough away to dilute any sound I might hear.

A hint of unease at what could be distrust on his part rumbles through me, but I squash it. He knows he can trust me. I didn’t give his father even a moment of credibility when he spoke against Eric. The water boils and I pour in the macaroni, and then the idea that my mother might call has me running upstairs to grab my own phone where it’s still sitting on the bathroom cabinet. There are no further messages and I wonder if my mother even knows that I’m gone.