Page 69 of Sparrow

“Don’t let her hear you say that.”

“It’s only you and me here, Arden. If she finds out, it’s because you told her. Let’s just agree to keep that a secret between us.”

“Deal,” she says, sticking out a flour-covered hand and waiting for me to take it.

I’m dirty and greasy from a day in the garage and she’s covered head to toe in flour, and I have the fleeting thought that we’re quite the pair. Both of us dirty, both of us carrying enough baggage for three people.

And yet here we are, shaking hands in my kitchen as we make a deal not to tell the local baker that Arden’s baking is better than hers.

I take her hand and pull her toward me, wrapping her in a hug. Fuck the flour. It’ll wash off. I need this girl in my arms right now.

“I just thought you looked like you could use something good today,” she murmurs against my chest.

And my heart starts to expand like someone just put a balloon in it and filled it full of air. Because this girl, this tiny, darling girl, has known nothing but abuse and fear in her life, and somehow still knows when someone is having a hard day.

And goes out and learns how to bake to make them feel better.

Arden

Mars pulls back and looks down at me, his golden mane of hair now covered with flour and his eyes a deeper blue than I’ve ever seen them, and I don’t have to guess to know what he’s thinking.

I don’t know how he got here or what his childhood was actually like, but I’ve seen enough to know that people don’t often try to take care of him. Hell, I don’t think people often take the time to even see him, and I watched his face register all of that when I said I was baking cinnamon rolls for him. I watched him take it in, turn it over, and come to a range of conclusions about what it might mean.

And now, for the first time, he’s looking at me like I’m more than just his step-niece and the girl who barged into his life when he had the bad luck of saving her from a kidnapping.

Or rather... no, it’s not the first time he’s looked at me like this. But based on the intensity of his stare, it is the first time he plans to do something about it.

He puts his hands to my cheeks, cupping my face like I’m the most precious thing in the world, and then leans down and brushes his lips across mine. The kiss is light, airy, almost nonexistent. A question more than an answer.

An offering that he’s leaving on my doorstep, his hands unsure when he drops it off.

But I don’t have any doubts at all. My body is singing with his touch, my heart hammering slow, steady beats at how close he is to me. I fly into his arms and throw myself at him and just like that, his kisses become hot and needy, his teeth sharp and his tongue insistent as it sweeps into my life. And my God, for a man who lives his live by the rules, he lights like a flame when he gets something he wants. He picks me up and wraps my legs around his waist, then turns and sweeps everything off the counter like some hero in a romance book.

“Mars!” I gasp. “My cinnamon rolls!”

He sets me calmly on the counter, his eyes dangerous and his voice a growl. “I’ll bake you more once I’ve had you.”

“You don’t even have the recipe!”

He puts his mouth to the spot under my ear and his hands reach for the hem of my shirt. He pulls it up over my head, then unhooks my bra and takes my breasts in his hands, and it happens so fast that Ive barely caught up before he leans down and takes the shell of my ear in his teeth.

“Then I’ll torture you until you give it to me,” he breathes.

Holy fucking hell, I’m going to explode. My blood heats so quickly it should be illegal and the space between my legs floods with moisture. He kneads and pinches my nipples, bringing them to eager peaks, and his teeth are busy on the skin of my neck, biting and scraping at the sensitive skin. I’m writhing in need already and he’s just now put his hands on me, but this heat is so abrupt, so unexpected, that my body doesn’t know how to react.

“And if I say no?” I gasp.

He yanks my shorts off, leaving me in nothing but a thong on the counter, and spanks my thigh lightly.

“Then it’ll be torture,” he mutters. “Like I said.”

God.

I don’t know whether to give in or hold out and make him carry through on this torture idea. And honestly, it doesn’t matter. Not even a little bit.

Because either way, I get him, and that’s currently all I want.

I reach up and touch his cheek lightly, then realize I still had icing on my hand and it’s now on his cheek.