Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
I close my eyes, pretending not to care. But my heart won’t let me as it throbs with emotion.
After all, it’s already too late. I’m already in love with Talon McKnight.
9
CHAPTER NINE – THE MAN OF THE HOUSE AND THE SASSY BRAT
Talon
If there is such a thing as a point of no return, I am elbow-deep in it right now, chopping rosemary for a rack of lamb while the entire cabin glows with a constellation of candles. The kitchen smells like woodsmoke, garlic, and my own guilty ambition. Every surface is clean, the counters wiped until the granite gleams, even the floor swept. I’ve run a lint roller over the couch. I’ve put the best sheets on the bed, the ones with a thread count so high they might as well be velvet.
It’s a seduction because I’ve decided tonight I’m going to claim Kat’s virginity, ruin her for anyone else, and cross the last red line I said I’d never touch. I’m an asshole for planning it, worse for wanting it so bad I can barely focus on the prep work. If I were a better man, I’d pour a whiskey, and call the whole thing off. But I’m not a better man. I’m Talon McKnight. The money’s already been transferred. I’m halfway hard and I haven’t even set the damn table yet.
I uncork a bottle of Opus One—a hundred-dollar wine, just to set the tone—and let it breathe while I finish the lamb. The playlist is all slow jazz, the real stuff, Chet Baker and Billie Holiday, nothing that could be mistaken for irony. I plate the salad, slice the bread, and arrange everything on the wooden table with a precision that borders on compulsive. At the center is a candlelit hurricane lantern, the flame flickering with romance. This is what a last supper looks like, I think, and for a moment I wonder if I’m the executioner or the man on the block.
Kat’s been upstairs for an hour. I told her, “dress for dinner—something soft, something that makes you feel beautiful.” She gave me a look, the kind that says you’re either a lunatic or a genius, and vanished up the stairs with a garment bag over her arm. I haven’t seen her since.
Now it’s almost seven, and I’m in the living room, wiping imaginary dust from the mantel when I hear her heels click on the hardwood. I turn and almost forget how to breathe.
Kat stands at the edge of the room in a pink wrap dress, the color so pale it borders on indecent. The dress is silk, or maybe something that wants to be silk, and it clings to her body in a way that makes my cock throb. The neckline is just low enough to hint at her bra, and the hem rides so high I can see the long, smooth run of her thighs. Her hair is down, brushed to a golden sheen, and her lips are painted the softest rose. On her feet: matching pink heels, strappy and delicate, a sharp contrast to her usual relaxed vibe.
For a second, I think Kat’s as nervous as I am, but then she cocks her head, gives me a sly smile, and says, “Is this a date, or is this part of a new research project?”
I laugh, but there’s a tremor in it. “A little of both.”
She takes a step closer. The dress rides up another half inch, threatening to reveal everything. “What’s the scenario this time?” she asks, voice teasing but uncertain. “Am I supposed to be a debutante? A mail-order bride? Or is this a Real Housewives thing?”
I shake my head. “No costumes. No props. Just you.” I pause, letting my gaze linger on her legs, her waist, her impossibly beautiful face. “Though if you want, we could try something new. I have an idea.”
She arches a brow, a challenge. “Hit me.”
I don’t hesitate. “We’re a family,” I say, keeping my voice low. “You’re my stepdaughter. We’ve both been fighting our attraction for months, but ever since your mother died, we’ve been circling each other, pretending it’s not what it is.”
Kat’s eyes go wide, her bust rising with excitement. “That’s so wrong.”
“Exactly,” I say. “That’s why it’s perfect.”
There’s a beat, a loaded silence as she processes. I half-expect her to bolt, to call me a pervert and storm upstairs, but instead she smiles, the real kind, crooked and sweet.
“Fine,” she says. “Let’s see if you can keep up, old man.”
I’m not sure which one of us is more relieved.
We sit at the table. I pour the wine. Kat waits for me to serve the lamb, then dives in with the appetite of a girl who never once dieted for a man in her life. She mops the sauce with bread, drinks the wine in slow, elegant sips, and makes a point of never breaking eye contact. I’m sweating, just a little, despite the cool air.