CHAPTER 25 #2
“I can’t just . . . stay here.”
He glanced up from the food, looking confused.
“I mean,” I rushed, “I will. For a little bit. Until I figure things out. But I need to pay you something.”
His expression didn’t change.
“I know I can’t afford anything close to what this costs,” I added, gesturing vaguely at the marble, the hidden appliances, the entire existence of this place.
“But I can give you everything I make at the casino. It’s your money anyway, technically, since you own Paradise.
And I’ll pick up more shifts. And I can go back to the coffeehouse and beg them to give me my job back, too, so—”
“The coffee shop?” he cut in.
“Yes. I can—”
“It’s closed.”
I blinked. “What?”
He shrugged, reaching for another container. “It either blew up or got closed for mold or something. I can’t remember the details. I just heard about it the other day.”
I stared at him.
“‘Blew up’?” I repeated faintly.
“Yeah.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Old wiring, maybe? Structural issues? Those places are disasters waiting to happen. It’s lucky you got out of there so nothing happened to you.”
I swallowed. “I can’t believe it. I mean, it must have happened literally right after they fired me. I—” Shaking my head, I frowned.
“Regardless,” he continued smoothly, setting a fork down in front of me, “you don’t need to worry about running back there. They didn’t deserve you in the first place.”
I bit down on my lip.
“I still want to pay you,” I said softly.
“Absolutely not, and now that that’s settled, let’s move to the celebration part of the evening.” Jagger reached into a chilled drawer and lifted out a bottle.
I was going to argue some more, but then my gaze snagged on the label, and my eyes widened. Now I had something else to argue about because, oh my gosh. “Oh. No. Absolutely not.”
He glanced at me, amused. “What?”
“That’s expensive,” I said quickly. “I know that label. All the high rollers order that . . . and only the high rollers. You don’t open that on a random weeknight. And you definitely don’t waste it on someone like me.”
He popped the cork with an easy twist. The soft sound echoed in the too-pretty kitchen. “Oops,” he murmured.
I had a flashback of when he’d put a knife in someone’s hand and said something similar. I’d kind of forgotten about that.
But I guess I had an excuse with everything that had happened since then.
Like my husband dying.
I groaned, heat creeping up my neck again. “I would have been fine with water. Or . . . tap water. I go perfectly well with tap water.”
Jagger practically threw the bottle down and stalked toward me.
One second he was on the other side of the island, the next he was in front of me, his hand bracketing my jaw and tipping my face up until I had no choice but to look at him.
“Don’t,” he growled, “ever talk about yourself like that again.”
My breath stuttered.
“Not in my presence,” he continued, his eyes locked on mine. “Not in anyone’s presence. You don’t get to decide you’re less than because the world treated you that way. Do you understand?”
I gaped at his intensity, something electric skittering down my spine that had nothing to do with fear. And then, because I was overwhelmed and half hysterical and apparently had no sense of self-preservation left, I blurted, “Yes, Daddy.”
Jagger didn’t look shocked at all by my words.
If anything, they seemed to affect him, judging by the way his eyes darkened, suddenly glittering with something that looked very close to satisfaction.
A smug smile touched his mouth, and then I was remembering exactly what those lips could do and exactly how good they could do it.
I was also recalling that we hadn’t talked about what had happened in the staff bathroom yet. Maybe that was a good thing, though . . . there was only so much I could handle in one day.
“Eden,” he murmured. “You keep saying things like that, and I’m going to start thinking everything you do is intentional.”
Scratch that . . . we really needed to talk about what happened.
Jagger released me and calmly walked back to the champagne bottle as if he hadn’t just rewired my nervous system with a few sentences and a look. He lifted it and began pouring; the pale gold bubbled into a flute, rising in a steady stream.
When it was full, he set the bottle down and picked up the glass by the stem. He walked back over and set it in front of me. “Drink your champagne,” he said lightly. “And don’t insult yourself while you do it.”
His smile was easy again. “Another argument in my favor, by the way . . . If I serve Mrs. Nesbitt’s food without the right beverage, she’ll never forgive me. She’ll pack up her knives, march straight to Cruz’s kitchen, and cook for him out of spite.”
Despite myself, a shaky laugh slipped out. “That bad?”
“Worse,” he said solemnly. “She’d make it a point to send me pictures of the meals. Captioned. I couldn’t live with that.”
My hands were still shaking when I lifted the glass, but the tension in my chest eased just a fraction. The first sip was cool and surprisingly smooth. Fine bubbles dissolved softly against my tongue instead of stinging, bright and crisp at first, then mellowing into something faintly sweet.
My eyes widened, and I took another sip. No wonder rich people drank this. It was delicious.
Jagger thankfully didn’t comment on the mini orgasm I was having over the champagne when he set a plate in front of me like it was a ceremonial offering.
I was drooling as I stared down at it, my appetite fully restored.
Sliced pieces of roasted chicken were lying on a bed of buttery mashed potatoes so smooth they looked whipped, not mashed, and a glossy sauce pooled around the edges with flecks of thyme and black pepper.
On the side, carrots had been roasted until they’d caramelized, and they’d been finished with something citrusy that cut through the richness just by smell alone.
I stared at it, overwhelmed. “I can’t believe you get to eat like this every day.”
He folded his arms and smirked. “Eat.”
I glanced up at him. “Bossy.”
“Yes,” he agreed easily.
I rolled my eyes, picked up my fork, took a bite . . . and then literally moaned. Freezing mid-chew, I closed my eyes, hoping that might save me, because the sound I’d just made had been obscene.
This chicken deserved obscene, though.
Whoever Mrs. Nesbitt was, somehow she’d been able to hit every single one of my pleasure centers at once.
“Oh my gosh,” I breathed, completely undone.
The sound that came from him wasn’t a laugh. It was strangled. Like it had been ripped out of him against his will.
My eyes flew open.
Jagger was gripping the edge of the counter with both hands, his shoulders tense as though he was holding himself in place by sheer force.
His jaw was clenched, a muscle ticking there, and his expression was twisted into something between pain and restraint.
For a second, he didn’t look smug or amused or in control.
He looked wrecked.
My fork hovered midair. “What— Are you okay?”
He dragged in a slow breath through his nose, his eyes flicking to mine and then away again like looking at me was making it worse. “You can’t,” he said tightly, “make sounds like that.”
At this rate, my face was going to burn off from how much I was blushing. I wasn’t sure that I could actually survive staying here. “It was just . . . the food.”
He let out another breath, harsher this time, and straightened. “I need a minute,” he said in a clipped voice before he turned and stalked off down the hall.
I stared after him, my fork still suspended in the air.
Well. That was dramatic. I looked down and stared longingly at my food. I should probably wait for him, right?
I waited a minute, and then another. And when he didn’t come back . . . I resumed eating. There was no universe in which I was choosing unresolved sexual tension over this food.
“Oh my gosh,” I murmured as I savored another bite, this time with zero shame since he wasn’t in the room.
Mrs. Nesbitt was my new favorite person.
***
Jagger
She was going to kill me.
Not with a knife or a gun. With fucking chewing. With that soft, distracted hum she made just because something tasted good.
I barely made it to the bathroom.
Locking the door, I braced my hands on the sink and stared at my reflection, hoping it might talk me out of this. It did not. Nothing in my life had prepared me for the fact that a woman eating chicken, potatoes, and carrots could undo me faster than bare skin ever had.
I shoved my hand down my pants, wrapped my fist around my shaft, and stroked myself roughly.
The piercing caught on my palm, sending a spike of pleasure straight through me.
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep quiet, my eyes squeezed shut as I pictured her mouth instead of my hand.
Those full lips stretched around me, her tongue swirling over the head, taking me deep until her throat strained and her eyes watered.
I was pulling so hard on my dick that it was a testament to the human body that I didn’t rip it right off. The wet sound of my own precum slicking the way filled the bathroom. My balls drew up tight, the pressure building so fast I couldn’t slow down even if I wanted to.
I came in under a minute, pulses of cum spilling over my knuckles, dripping down my fingers, and soaking the counter in front of me. My hips jerked forward into my fist, a choked groan slipping out before I could stop it.
When it was over, all I could do was shake my head and laugh.
Get it together, asshole.
I washed my hands, took one last steadying breath that did absolutely nothing, and went back to the kitchen. Which turned out to be a mistake because she’d moved on to dessert.
Mrs. Nesbitt’s cheesecake sat in front of her, already half demolished. It was one of the best desserts that she made, and I stared in pained agony as Eden took a bite, her eyes fluttering shut for half a second.