Devil's Plaything (Playthings, #1) by Lydia Rowan Page B

to dance this morning.”
    “I cannot tell a lie,” she said with a smile. “It was the shower, but you’re okay too.”
    He laughed and lifted her, wiping the droplets of water that had fallen from his still-damp hair off her face as he said, “Next time, you get the small bathroom.”
    Next time.
    She hadn’t even dared consider it, but the words warmed her.
    She headed into the kitchen area and opened the refrigerator, expecting the standard bachelor fare, but was surprised again—although by now she should have known to expect the unexpected with him—when she was greeted with an array of fresh fruits and vegetables, eggs, cheese, meat, pretty much anything she could need to make a decadent meal.
    “You have everything we need for perfect scrambled eggs and everything else besides.” She looked over at him, eyes narrowed. “Did you buy this stuff in case I agreed to stay over?”
    “An excellent idea, but I’m not so clever, I’m afraid,” he said with a smile.
    “So you just keep a fully stocked fridge.”
    He nodded. “I don’t like to go out much.”
    “Well, lucky me,” she said as she rummaged through the ingredients, removing what she needed. “I’ve never been to this part of town before, I don’t think.”
    “There’s no reason to. It’s mostly warehouses, industrial, so it’s isolated. Not a lot of neighbors.”
    “Seems like it could be scary,” she said.
    “Not at all. No one has a reason to be here, so there’s less chance of trouble.”
    “Unlike my place?” she said, picking up his unspoken implication.
    He shrugged noncommittally, though she knew he had strong feelings on the topic.
    “Why do you live there?” he finally asked.
    “I can afford it, and it’s nice enough and pretty safe, I’d say. Except for that one incident, I haven’t really had any trouble,” she said as she turned on one of the gas burners, placed a sauté pan over the flame, and grabbed a bowl and whisk from cabinets.
    “Safe.” D’yavol scoffed.
    Julie turned away from the stove to look at him, an eyebrow raised. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those boyfriends who—”
    She turned back abruptly and began cracking eggs into a bowl and stirring furiously before dumping the concoction into the pan and again beginning to stir. A little scrape across the floor indicated that D’yavol had moved his chair, and a few moments later he stood behind her, his body barely touching hers, capturing her in a prison of heat, the stove in front her, his body behind, his extended arms to the side. He took the whisk out of her hand, turned off the burner, and removed the pan from the heat.
    “It looks ready,” he said, mouth close to her ear, the brush of his breath making her shiver.
    He kissed her ear, then her neck, right at the spot that made her squirm. It was almost enough to squelch her embarrassment. Almost but not quite.
    “Am I, Julie?” he asked between kisses, his voice deep and warm.
    “Er, are you what?”
    “Your boyfriend?”
    A nervous chuckle drifted out her of her mouth, and she leaned against his arm, silently imploring him to move, needing distance so that she could think. He acquiesced, moving back a step, and she immediately went back to the table and sat, back toward him.
    “Our breakfast is getting cold,” he said, the words followed by movement in the kitchen space.
    A few moments later, he set a plate in front of her, piled high with fluffy eggs, and resumed his seat across from her, placing a similarly piled plate in front of himself.
    “Well,” he said, “am I?”
    Trust her devil not to let it go.
    “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking. Of course I enjoy spending time with you, but I’m not trying to force you into anything or make you take a label,” she said, grateful that her words were calm and reasonable-sounding.
    “Pity,” he said, his face blank, but laughter playing around his eyes, “I like the sound of it.”
    “Really?” she said, surprised. Sure, they’d