Twist the Knife (Lost Kings MC #24)

What are we going to talk about?

I’m in the kitchen gathering dishes and silverware when Jigsaw returns, holding a stack of white cardboard boxes and a grease-stained white paper bag. “How much did you order?”

He sets the pile on my counter and rubs his fingers over his chest. “A little bit of everything.”

I pull down my prettiest plates. Cream stoneware with black leaves and acorns around the edges. I’ve only had a chance to use them once since I bought them. Did he get drinks too? I pluck my tall black beaded glass tumblers down, setting them on the counter with a thud.

Jigsaw comes up behind me and slides his hands over my hips, pressing himself against my back. Warmth pulses against my exposed shoulder and neck as he leans over and drags his lips against my sensitive skin. Sensation shoots straight to my nipples and I sigh, leaning against him.

“Is this lesson number three?” I ask between shaky breaths.

He withdraws his hands and cold air rushes in to replace his warmth. “Dinnertime.” He pats my behind and reaches past me to grab the plates.

What just happened?

I take the glasses and follow him to the other side of the counter. “I’m sorry I don’t have a proper dining table. I never bothered?—”

“It’s fine.” He eases onto one of the high stools and pats his hand on the other one. “Come sit next to me.”

“Of course.” I hop up, twisting the swiveling seat so our knees touch. “Show me what you got.”

He flicks open one of the smaller boxes. “Calzone. You didn’t specify what fillings you like, so I just got plain cheese and ricotta.”

My mouth waters. “That’s my favorite. I usually only eat half, though.”

“Good to know.” He sets the calzone on my plate, then locates a small container of sauce and sets it in front of me.

“I feel like nothing else will be as exciting now,” he teases, opening up a white plastic container. “Hot wings. Pepperoni pizza. I’m a pretty basic fella.”

“I like basic.” I tap the perfectly golden crust of my calzone. “This is really just a big pizza pocket.”

I cut the calzone in half and twirl my fork in the gooey cheese that oozes out. “Do you want half?”

“I’ll try a piece.”

I cut one piece into half and use my fork to set it on his plate.

“Thanks.”

I thought I’d be nervous sharing a meal with him in my house but it’s easy and cozy. From going out before, I already know he never comments or criticizes what or how much I eat.

Dinner isn’t completely anxiety free. I only end up eating a quarter of my calzone and barely taste any of it. What we’re hopefully going to do afterward has me bubbling over with excitement and a bit of fear. It should be my turn to go down on him.

I’m going to suck—ha!—at it and need a lot of instruction. Shame beats against me. He’s probably had, I don’t even want to think of how many women, do this for him who knew what they were doing. How’s he supposed to relax and actually enjoy it if he has to stop and give me pointers every few seconds?

“You’re not hungry?” he asks.

“I am.” I slant a look at him. “For something off-menu.”

He drops the half-eaten slice of pizza on his plate, grabs his drink and takes a long swallow. “Let’s go.”

Giddy and a little nervous, I take his hand and lead him into my bedroom. He closes the door behind us, then uses his bigger body to press me against the wall.

“What do you want tonight?” he asks, staring down at me.

“To make you feel good.”

“I always feel good around you. What else?”