Drop Dead Gorgeous by Juliet Lyons

Author:Juliet Lyons
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sourcebooks
Published: 2017-08-21T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

Mila

The next morning, I wake up to dazzling white sunlight at the back of my eyelids and wonder if I dreamed it all.

But then I feel a warm, strong hand splayed on my thigh, legs intertwined with mine, and the unmistakable scent of musky man permeating my nostrils. I whisper a silent amen to the heavens. I’m not usually a religious person, but after this twist of fate, I’m convinced there is a God.

And He is good.

I stir, furrowing deeper into the mattress, smiling as Vincent’s hand moves to my tummy, dragging me backward into the snug warmth of his chest, soft downy hairs tickling my spine.

“Morning,” he says throatily, brushing my hair aside and pressing hot kisses into my shoulders.

I release a sigh of pure contentment. “Morning.”

Part of me begins to grieve for a future when I will not wake up like this—a knot of tangled sheets, my bottom pressed against his stirring groin, expert hands torturing me with soft, circular caresses. If I could freeze time and live in one moment forever, this would be it.

I turn over, burying myself in his embrace, wanting to drown in the hard and soft lines of his body. I want to know nothing more of the world than his touch and smell, his smooth skin golden in the light from the window.

“Let’s never leave this bed,” I murmur.

He chuckles, rough fingertips inching their way up my inner thigh.

“I’m serious. If we locked the door and closed all the blinds, how long do you think it would be before they broke the doors down?”

“A few days,” he says, the words vibrating through me as he moves his lips against my neck. “I don’t think my superiors would take kindly to our new situation.”

A breath catches in my throat as his fingers probe the warmth between my legs. “Vincent,” I gasp. “Keep going.”

He smiles into my lips. “I have no intention of stopping.”

* * *

A couple of hours later, I’m wrapped in a towel at the kitchen island, watching a shirtless Vincent make me boiled eggs. He’s saying something about French cooking, but I’m not listening. I’m too busy admiring the play of muscles and tendons under his satiny skin as he lifts a carton of eggs from the fridge. If men who looked this good never wore shirts, the world would be a better place.

“Don’t put the eggs in until the water is boiling,” I say, coming back to my senses as he flips open the carton.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, a wry smile on his lips.

“And throw some salt into the water. Otherwise the shells might crack. Have you seriously never made boiled eggs before?”

“I have, but they always end up too hard.”

I lay a hand over my chest. “It’s a good thing I’m here, Vincenzo—boiled eggs are one of the few things I can make without screwing things up. Now, the trick is, lower the eggs in carefully from the edge of a spoon. Then as soon as they’re in, you put the bread in the toaster.

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