The King (The Original Sinners: White Years, #2)(68)

Sam dropped to her knees in front of him.

“What are you doing on the f loor? You’re wearing a tuxedo.”

“By your leave, my lord,” she said, smiling up at him. “Consider me your valet.”

“How many romance novels did you read as a girl?”

“Hundreds,” she said. “That’s the only type of book my mom had in the house. She hid them from my father much better than she hid them from me.”

“That’s the first time you’ve ever mentioned your family without wincing.”

“We’re not close anymore,” she said, smiling at Kingsley. “They didn’t want a daughter like me.”

“If I have a daughter someday, I hope she’ll be like you.”

Sam blinked hard, like an invisible hand had slapped her.

“What?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at her.

“Nothing.” She took his ankle in her hand. “Nobody’s ever said anything that nice to me before.”

“I’ll never do it again,” he promised.

“Good. Now, shove it in as far as it’ll go.”

Kingsley looked down at her.

“Your foot,” she said. “Shove your foot in.”

“You’re kinkier than I thought.”

Kingsley shoved. Sam took two thin curved sticks and slipped them in the small eyelets inside the top of the boot.

“Stand up and push your foot down while I pull up.” He stood. She pulled. The boot was on. “Okay, one more time.”

It took thirty seconds of pushing, pulling and trouser rearranging, but then it was done, and Sam, still on the f loor, sat back and looked him up and down.

“God damn,” she said.

“Good God damn?” he asked.

“The best God damn.”

He reached down and helped her off the f loor. With her hand in his, she dragged him over to the cheval mirror.

“Now that’s a sight to behold.” Sam leaned against him, and they stood shoulder to shoulder—his shoulder a mere four inches higher than hers.

Kingsley pulled her in front of him, his arm across her chest like a shield over her heart. She rested her chin on his forearm, and the small gesture of feminine surrender sent a surge of possessiveness through him.

“That’s an even better sight to behold.”

“I do look damn good in a tux.”

Kingsley smiled but didn’t speak. He’d meant the image of Sam in his arms was the better sight to behold. She must not have understood. Or perhaps she did understand and didn’t agree.

“I like the boots,” he said, letting her go before he got too used to holding her.

“I don’t.”

“You don’t?”

“I love the boots. I want you to wear them every single day until they’re a part of you.”

“I will,” he said. Easy enough to do since they were a gift from her. They were already a part of him.

“I’ll help you put them on every morning. It’ll be our routine. I’ll help you put on your boots, and you can give me my orders for the day. Then we’ll drink coffee and figure out who to blackmail next.”

“Sounds like paradise.” Sam’s face being the first one he saw every morning? He could get used to that.

From outside his bedroom came the sound of laughter. Someone from somewhere in the house—Blaise from the sound of it—called his name.

“Party time,” Sam said. “Have fun f*cking half your guests.”

“What are you going to do?” he asked as they headed to his bedroom door.

“Fuck the other half.”

The house was almost full by the time he and Sam made it to the main f loor. Thirty minutes later, they had a full house and then some. Sam had done a masterful job with the food and wine, especially given what short notice she’d had. Apparently working as a bartender for six years had put her in contact with the best people in the business. They ate. They drank. They laughed.

And of course, they f*cked.

Not Kingsley. He walked from room to room with a glass of wine in his hand. For two weeks he’d been fasting from sex. He wanted his first meal to be a feast, not a snack. He needed someone delectable, succulent, mouth-watering…

S?ren walked in.

Kingsley rolled his eyes.

“Not you,” Kingsley said to him.

“Hello to you, too,” S?ren said, glaring at him. “I’m here for five seconds, and you’re already upset with me.”

“Yes,” Kingsley said. “I’m trying to pick out someone to f*ck, and you’re blocking my view.”

“Forgive me. I had no idea you were prowling.”

“When am I not prowling?” He handed S?ren a glass of Syrah off a passing tray. S?ren often wore his clerics when he stopped by the house, but tonight he’d come incognito—black pants and black jacket, but a white shirt. “I can’t believe you actually came tonight.”

“I hadn’t planned to.”

“What changed your mind?”

S?ren reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope.

“This.”

He gave it to Kingsley who opened the envelope.

He found a minicassette tape inside.