Chapter 11: Moving In

Rhys's penthouse had a wall of windows, a kitchen the size of my apartment, and not one thing on the walls.

"You live like a hotel," I said.

"I live like a man who works."

"There's nothing here."

"There's a refrigerator," he said, and opened it to show me a bottle of mustard and a lemon.

I laughed so hard I had to sit on a stool.

Two movers brought in the last of my boxes from Somerville and set them in the guest room I had no intention of sleeping in.

Rhys tipped them and shut the door behind them.

"My grandmother had the housekeeper retire this morning," he said. "Full pension. She won't speak to Dorian again."

"That's it?"

"That's what Odile does. She doesn't scream. She removes."

"I like her."

"Everyone likes her. That's her trick."

He crossed the kitchen and stopped in front of my stool.

I had on one of his shirts again, buttoned wrong, and no shoes.

His hands settled on my knees.

"You're the most frightening woman I have ever met," he said.

"You say that like it's bad."

"I say it like I want to kiss you in this kitchen."

"So kiss me."

He did.

It was slower than the study and less angry.

It was a deep unhurried kiss that tipped my head back and curled my toes against the stool.

His hands slid up my thighs under the shirt.

"No underwear," he said against my mouth.

"I was unpacking."

"You were torturing me."

"A little."

He lifted me off the stool and onto the cool granite counter.

The stone was cold under my bare skin and I yelped, and he grinned.

"Now we're even," he said.

He undid the shirt, one button at a time, and pushed it off my shoulders.

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