Page 91 of By His Vow

“There’s a lot about me that you don’t know, baby.” He winks before turning back around and pouring some kind of sauce into his pan.

“It smells amazing,” I say, unable to ignore it as I hop up onto the closest stool.

Abandoning the food, he stalks to the other side of the kitchen.

He’s still shirtless—risky decision while cooking—and his muscles pull and twist as he moves. Even more so when he reaches into a cupboard for something. What that something is passes me by as I shamelessly indulge in his god-like body.

I startle when he slams a glass down in front of me and fills it with a very healthy measure of scotch.

I look up, my eyes instantly locking on his amused ones.

“See something you like, Tatum?”

“Not really. Can’t say I like scotch all that much.”

His eyes narrow, but the heat in them doesn’t lessen.

“Good thing I wasn’t talking about the scotch then, wasn’t it? Drink,” he says, sliding it closer without giving me a chance to respond.

“But I don’t?—”

“I said drink,” he repeats.

The need to fight burns through me, but then I look into his eyes and it melts away.

I reach for the glass and my breath catches as our fingers collide. Electricity shoots up my arm and our eye contact holds.

The air between us turns thick with sexual tension and I struggle to catch my breath.

The second he pulls his hand away, my entire body runs cold. It’s the most bizarre thing.

Without thinking, I lift the glass to my lips and swallow down the contents in one go.

The second it hits my throat, I realize my mistake.

I cough and splutter as the strong alcohol leaves a fiery trail all the way to my stomach.

Kingston watches me suffer with an amused expression on his face.

“Don’t give me that look. I told you I don’t like it,” I snap.

He chuckles before turning back to dinner.

“Trust me, it’ll help you relax.”

His insinuation irritates me. “I don’t need to re?—”

He turns around and glares at me.

“What?” I hiss.

“Do you argue with everything I say for fun? Is it some kind of game to you?” he asks, looking genuinely interested in my answer.

“I don’t like being told what to do.”

“I’ve noticed,” he mutters, setting two plates on the counter before placing a pile of fresh noodles in the center.

“As if you’re any better.” I scoff.