22. Marcus #3
He lifts his shoulders but says nothing.
“Would you prefer it if you fucked me?” The words leave me before I can think properly.
They take him by surprise, too, because he coughs, and I pass him the glass of water. After he gulps half of it, he swallows hard. “I thought you exclusively top.”
“I do, but I’d try it with you. Probably. I’m not sure.”
“You would?”
“For you, yes, I think I would.”
“Wow. You’re that desperate to have sex with me?”
“Yeah. It’s ridiculous at this point.”
His lips part, glistening with the water. “You…won’t need to.”
“Won’t need to what?”
“Let me fuck you. I…don’t want to.”
“No?”
“No. I tie people up when I fuck them, and I don’t want that with you. I believe I prefer…not thinking or planning during sex.”
“Like a pillow princess?”
He narrows his eyes. “You have a problem with that?”
“Not at all.” I rub his calf with the back of my foot. “I love when you let me touch you however I fucking please. You make the most erotic face when I’m caging you against the nearest surface, you know that?”
His gaze meets mine. He looks down at his food, but not before I catch the slight embarrassment in his eyes.
God, he’s so cute for an asshole.
He takes another bite, chewing slowly as if to savor it. “I’ve never had homemade quesadillas.”
“What about Kane?”
“He’s more into pasta, soups, and some Cantonese cuisine he learned from a hotshot chef. I prefer this type of hearty, savory, spicy stuff.”
“Then you’re at the right place.”
“You’ll cook for me?”
“Anytime.”
He grins up at me, those dimples burrowing deep in his cheeks, and something in my chest shatters, moving so suddenly, I find it hard to breathe.
Fuck, he’s beautiful.
How can he look even more beautiful right now?
It’s his smile, I realize. It’s genuine and sedated, lighting up his face.
“I assume you don’t cook?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “We have cooks.”
“Kane has them, too.”
“Yeah, but he enjoys making food, so he found a way to learn.” He shrugs. “I never learned, I guess. Mom and Dad never cooked either, so no influence there.”
“Mom tries, but she’s okay-ish.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. She’s secretly glad I’m the one who cooks now.”
He laughs, and once again, I’m held hostage by the way his face shines brighter and his eyes look so alive.
For just a moment, he looks so boyish and carefree—a stark difference from earlier.
“You’re just talking shit about your mom since she’s not here.” He playfully kicks my foot that’s resting on top of his with his free one.
“She’d gladly back me up if she were here.”
“Uh-huh.” He takes another bite, then pauses. “How about your dad?”
“What about him?”
“You know, does he come by often?” He stares up at me with a sense of anticipation. “Cook, maybe?”
“Dad? Cook? I can’t even imagine him outside of his suit, let alone in a kitchen.”
“Yeah, my dad, too. He’s too business-oriented to do something so normal. I have a theory that I told Hayes, but he wasn’t impressed.”
“Who’s Hayes?”
“My minion. Dad’s secretary and house manager of sorts. He’s been cleaning up after my messes his entire life, kind of grown white hair because of it, oops. Anyway, I told Hayes that when Dad dies, they’ll find a robot inside him.”
He smiles, but it’s forced.
I pull my leg back, then lean forward and rest my chin on my steepled fingers. “Will he really kill you if he finds out you’re with a guy?”
Preston stares at the nearly empty plate, his gaze lost, and I think he’ll turn into the zombie from the bathroom, but he just whispers, “Maybe. It’s not really up to him. If the others vote for my death, they’ll find a way to kill me one way or another, but you know…death isn’t what scares me.”
“What does?”
“Dad pulling the trigger.” His lips tremble before he purses them again. “I’d rather kill myself than watch him do it. I’ve disappointed him enough as it is.”
“Disappointed him how?”
He lifts his head and blinks once, twice, then sinks his teeth into the cushion of his lower lip as if he’s just realized who he’s talking to.
“Not important,” he mutters, finishing his last bites in silence.
As he eats, I watch him.
This seemingly perfectly imperfect prince with broken insides has never had a homemade family meal—despite the high-end chefs—thinks his mom died because of him somehow, and has some deep unresolved issues with his dad.
And it takes everything in me not to devour him whole. Disassemble him into tiny pieces, then put him back together again.
As he swallows the last bite, I’m getting really distracted by a smidge of sauce on the bottom corner of his lips.
“Can I have more?” he asks, but I’m already half standing, reaching out to him.
His eyes widen, turning a shiny expectant green. “What are you doing—”
I grab his jaw and lean in, sealing my mouth to his, then suck his lower lip, licking the sauce away as my balls vibrate.
Just a taste, and I’m about to combust.
As I pull away, Preston’s watching me with shivering, glistening lips.
And I realize with damning reality that I’ll probably never get enough of him.
Maybe I should just trap him, so he won’t get the chance to leave.