Sinner's Revenge (Sinner's Creed MC #2)(25)

“Why don’t you get your ass down here and do it?” I ask, leaning over to glare at her—sipping her f*cking lemonade like a queen.

“Well, I would, but I’m not quite ready for manual labor, boss.”

“Yeah, and whose fault is that?” She doesn’t answer, and I’m glad for the break from her nagging.

“You should get a dog.”

“I already have one mutt around here. No need for another one.” I’m sure she’s giving me the finger, but she should have known better than to say some shit like that.

“I cannot wait to get the hell away from here,” she mumbles. Like she’s some kind of prisoner.

I stab the trimmers in the ground, then walk over and snatch the lemonade out of her hand. “Nothing between you and anywhere but here except air and opportunity.”

She gives me a disgusted look as she eyes the glass in my hand. Then she smiles. “Why, when I could stay here and make your life miserable too?”

“You’re doing a good f*cking job at that.” I light a smoke, fighting the urge to stab her in the eye with it.

“Whatever. Admit it. You like having me around.”

I laugh. “Yeah, about as much as I like being told what to do. And what not to do. And how to eat, sleep, sit, and trim hedges. You can’t leave soon enough in my eyes, sweetheart.”

Her lips curl into a snarl at my words. “Stop it with the pet names. They weird me out.”

Handing her back the now-empty glass, I shoot her a wink. “Whatever you say, pretty girl.” As I get back to my yard work, I realize that not once had she asked me not to call her that.

Diem cooks again and it’s just as bad tonight as it was last night. It’s some kind of casserole that has the consistency of Jell-O and tastes like cardboard. I manage to eat three bites before I make a sandwich. The next meal we share will be pizza.

Per my usual ritual, I’m sitting in my recliner watching the Western Channel waiting for my eyes to get heavy enough to sleep. Since Diem has been here, I haven’t had a problem falling asleep at night as long as she is in bed with me. I don’t dwell on it though. The thought of me feeling safe around her makes me feel like a *.

“Move over,” she says, already acting like she’s fixing to sit in the chair with me.

“What? No. Get your ass on the couch. This is a one-person chair. Tonight and every other night, that one person is me.” She ignores me, easing her ass down on the arm of the recliner and leaning against my shoulder. In her hands she holds a big bowl. “What’s that?”

“This? This is a one-person bowl of ice cream,” she says, giving me a sardonic smile.

“Is there any more?”

“Nope,” she answers shortly, keeping her eyes on the TV.

“Give me a bite.” I’m practically whining.

“Move over.”

Letting out a loud breath, I pull out the recliner, noticing her pleased smile as I do. Smart-ass thinks she knows everything. Sliding over, I give her an inch of space that she manages to wiggle her little ass in.

“Now give me a bite.” She passes the bowl over, already absorbed in the show. I look down, and there’s a fourth of a spoonful left. Just enough to piss me off.

“Go fix us some more,” she demands.

I close my eyes, trying to calm down the beast inside me that begs to bite her face off. “You said there wasn’t any more,” I grit through my teeth.

“I lied. Hurry up while the commercials are on.” She grins up at me, her eyes flashing with mischief.

I slam the recliner shut with my feet, and the jerk of the chair causes her to wince and hold her side. I match her evil grin with my own. “Oops.”

“I hate you,” she calls as I make my way to the kitchen.

“I hate you more,” I yell over my shoulder. And really, I do.

By the third episode of Gunsmoke, Diem is laying across my chest. My arm is around her waist, her legs are tangled with mine, and we’re both finally comfortable. She looks up at me, her eyes shining with curiosity beneath her long, dark lashes.

“Kiss me.” My eyebrows raise in question. “Kiss me. Like you did that night in the bar.”

“Why?” I ask, feeling my blood rush faster to my cock.

“Because I want you to.”

I smirk. “No.”

She leans her head back further against my shoulder, her lips nearly touching my cheek. “Please?” Did she seriously just say please? Or was I hearing shit?

“I like when you beg,” I say, my gaze drifting from her lips to her eyes and back.

“Please, Zeke. Just kiss me.” She’s serious. And I’m hardening. Maybe she’ll beg for that too.

Cradling her face with my hand, my thumb runs over the fading bruise under her eye. Sliding my hand down her neck, I hold it, my mouth barely grazing over hers. “Like this?” I ask, planting a soft kiss on her parted lips.

“More,” she whispers, trying to move her mouth closer. But I move my hand to her throat, applying a little pressure to keep her where I want her.

My mouth covers hers, kissing her a little harder. When she parts her lips, I pull back. “Like that?”

“A little more,” she breathes, and I can feel her pulse quickening. Drawing a lazy circle around her lips with my tongue, she moans. As soon as it escapes her, I give her the kiss I know she wants. She tastes like ice cream and Diem. I never knew chocolate and watermelon were such a delicious combination.