Page 86 of Asher Black (The Five Syndicates)
“Wait,” I begin, disbelief coloring my voice. “You knew what they were saying?”
“Not when they were saying it, but I do now.”
“How?”
“Translator app.”
“How’d you know how to spell their words?”
“I didn’t. I spoke them using the dictation feature.”
“All of them?!”
“Yes.” At my disbelieving look, he adds, “Photographic memory.”
“Wow. No kidding.” I hesitate. “What did they say? Before I got there.”
His eyes darken. “I’d rather not repeat it.”
I understand that. I didn’t hear a lot of it, but what I did hear would have pissed anyone off. René called Asher, a man who built a billion dollar empire by the age of 25, one that René’s livelihood depends on, an incompetent fool.
Doesn’t René know who he’s messing with?
Is he so clouded by greed for money and power that he doesn’t realize what a worthy opponent Asher is?
I study Asher’s expression. He doesn’t just look furious. He also looks embarrassed.
I hate the look on his face, so I say, “Kiss me again, please.”
It’s reckless. Stupid. Emotionally driven.
But I don’t regret it, because the embarrassment and anger on his face is replaced with exquisite heat.
And he kisses me again and again until my lips are red and chapped, and we’re unaware that we’ve been sitting in the car, parked in his personal garage for almost an hour, while Xavier and Maybe Dominic sit awkwardly in the front seat, listening to the beautiful symphony that is our lips pressed together.
When we finally make it into our home, I hightail it to the kitchen. It’s just us. Asher sent Maybe Dominic and Xavier home as soon as we exited the car. I rummage through the pantry to the musical soundtrack of Asher’s laughter. It’s at my expense, of course. My stomach has been making obnoxious growling noises since we exited the car. It’s why we had to stop making out in the first place.
I open a packet of Famous Amos™ cookies and pour myself a glass of water.
Asher stops laughing. “Don’t do it.”
I smirk as I dip a cookie into my water in slow motion then pop it into my mouth.
He groans. “That is so gross. I can’t believe I kiss that mouth.”
My heart skips a beat at the word “kiss” coming out of his lips.
I kiss that mouth.
I kiss that mouth.
I kiss that mouth.
I wish I recorded him saying that, so I could listen to it all day long. I’d set it as my alarm tone if I could.
“I think it’s delicious.” I take another bite.
He’s had several months to get used to my cookie eating habits. It’s not my fault that it takes him a long time to adapt to awesomeness.
