Ruthless Creatures (Queens & Monsters, #1)(33)

Be a big girl, Natalie. Just tell him the truth.

Keeping my voice as even as possible, I say, “I’m not so sure I can be as direct as you are. Truth be told, I’m pretty conservative.” I clear the frog from my throat. “In bed.”

His voice husky, he says, “You think I don’t know that?”

My stomach sinks. “It’s that obvious?”

“What’s obvious is that you’re so fucking sweet, I just want to sink my teeth into every inch of you. If you’re worried you’ll disappoint me, don’t be. You’re perfect. You’re a wet dream. If you don’t like something I say or do, tell me. I want everything on the table, because I don’t want to unknowingly do something to fuck this up. That means you’re going to have to communicate with me, good or bad.”

He chuckles. “Which, so far, you’ve been very good at.”

I’m all out of breath, and the only thing I’m doing is sitting down.

I need to see a doctor about my cardiovascular fitness.

Kage must know I’m not up to a coherent response at this point, because he shows mercy by turning businesslike.

“All right, Ms. Peterson. I accept your offer for a date. What time are you picking me up?”

“Me? Pick you up? Wait—”

“You’re right, I should drive. People who burn cookies so badly can’t be trusted behind the wheel of a car.”

I laugh. “Oh, so you want me to communicate with you? Here’s where I tell you not to be a chauvinistic jerk.”

“You weren’t kidding about missing that day in etiquette class.”

“I missed the one about not being a wisecracking little smart aleck, too.”

Once again, he pulls a one-eighty, going from light to dark like quicksilver.

“Don’t worry,” he says in a hard, dominant voice. “I’ll correct that bad behavior. I’ll correct it over and over again with the palm of my hand on your naked ass until you’re writhing on my lap and begging me to let you come.”

Then he tells me he’ll pick me up at six and hangs up on me.





13





Nat





When Kage knocks on my door at six, I’m calm and ready.

Ha!

I’m actually a nervous wreck, but I’m determined not to show it.

When I open up, I find him standing on my porch in his signature outlaw-meets-aristocrat ensemble of denim, leather, and luxury wool. That overcoat he’s wearing probably cost more than my car.

His unruly hair is tamed. His expression is stern. In one of his big paws, he holds a bouquet of dainty white flowers wrapped with a white satin ribbon.

It’s an unexpectedly sweet gesture. Courtly. I have a hard time imagining him at a florist, picking out individual stems, but the bouquet is obviously not one of those premade grocery-store things. It looks more like his wardrobe: simple but expensive.

This is a man who takes care when he chooses things.

“Hi,” I say, feeling shy. “You look great.”

“Not as great as you.” He holds out the flowers.

I take them from him and invite him in. “I’ll just put these in water and get my coat, and we can get going.”

Kage closes the door as I head into the kitchen in search of a vase. I find one in a cabinet over the fridge. I fill it with water, remove the plastic wrap and ribbon from the bouquet, and recut the stems of the flowers.

Then I try not to fidget as I arrange the flowers in the vase and Kage stands two feet away drinking me in like he’s a cactus in a drought-ravaged desert and I’m the first spring rain.

I’m so flustered by the intensity of his gaze, the floodgates open.

“You hung up on me before I could tell you that Sloane and her boyfriend will be joining us. Actually, I’m not sure if he’s technically her boyfriend. That’s just what I’m calling him because there’s really no polite term for ‘flavor of the month.’ She goes through men like tissues. Not that I’m judging her. I’m not. I’m just saying he’ll be there. This guy. Oh, and a few of his friends, too, apparently. I hope that’s okay. I know this was supposed to be our date, but actually, it’s a double date. I mean, it is still our date, it’s just that more people will be—”

Kage reaches out and gently grasps my wrist. “Easy,” he murmurs. “Take a breath.”

I close my eyes and do just that. “Sorry. I’m not normally this high-strung.”

“I know. Me neither.”

When I open my eyes and look at him, he’s looking back at me with so much desire burning in his eyes that for a second, I lose my breath.

He takes the kitchen shears from my hand, sets them on the counter, and pulls me toward him, his grip on my wrist still gentle. Coaxing, not demanding.

A “please,” not a command.

He winds my arms around his shoulders, grasps my waist and pulls our bodies together, and gazes down at me.

His voice low, he says, “I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the day we met. I’m not someone who obsesses over things, but I’ve obsessed over you. To the point of distraction. To the point where it interfered with my work. I can’t get you out of my head, and I’ve tried. Hard. It was useless. So I gave up trying.