Read Online Penmort Castle by Kristen Ashley - Free Book Online Page B

she
asked.
    “No.”
    “Ice?”
    “No.”
    “How many
fingers?”
    She was also
obviously acquainted with whisky.
    “Two,” he
answered.
    She took down
the whisky and a squat glass and poured two fingers while he went
to the stereo and turned the music down passed normal straight to
old woman.
    When he turned
away from the stereo, she was in front of him with his glass.
    “I think it
might be illegal in a few countries to play Foreigner that low,”
she declared in her soft voice.
    “I doubt
England is one of those countries,” Cash returned.
    “I bet Scotland
isn’t,” she replied and seeing her mischievous grin, suddenly, he
wanted to kiss her.
    Not touch his
tongue briefly to hers but kiss her so hard, so long and so
thoroughly he could smell her sex mingled with her perfume.
    She didn’t read
his mind instead, she went on to tease, “Though, considering your
people brought us the Bay City Rollers, maybe not.”
    It was deeply
unfortunate, Cash thought, that she’d teased him.
    That made him want to kiss her even more.
    He didn’t
because he knew if he did, at that moment, he might not be able to
stop.
    He took the
whisky from her and lifted it to his lips, his eyes watching her
over the rim of the glass. Even dressed casually with very little
makeup, she was stunning.
    Before taking a
drink, he returned, “My people also brought you Nazareth.”
    He watched her
warm hazel eyes grow even warmer.
    “Touché,” she
replied softly.
    Good
Christ, he thought, taking in her warm eyes and soft tone and
he found it took a supreme effort of will not to reach for her.
    She seemed
oblivious to his rampaging thoughts and turned, again heading
toward the kitchen.
    “I ate
already,” she informed him as she moved and he followed.
    This did not
please him.
    He didn’t
respond. He leaned a hip against the counter and saw the kitchen
was clean and tidy, only a glass half-filled with red wine sat on
one of the counters.
    Abby took down
a plate.
    “If I eat late,
I don’t sleep. My body doesn’t like it,” she shared.
    He knew she
liked her sleep, she’d told him that morning when he’d woken her to
hear her sweet, soft voice sounding husky, irate and adorable.
    He watched her
pull out cutlery and set it beside the plate she’d retrieved and
while he did so he found that he didn’t like that he knew exactly
eight pertinent facts about her. These being she sold her body for
money, couldn’t sleep if she ate late, lived in her grandmother’s
house, had a dead husband, liked loud music, red wine and sleep
and, most importantly, she sounded unbelievably fuckable in the
morning.
    “I would have
preferred you waited for me,” he told her honestly.
    Her gaze
shifted to him as she pulled on oven mitts.
    “Sorry,” she
murmured, sounding like she actually was, and turned away to open
the oven door.
    The tantalising
smell came out in a wave and she extricated an earthenware pan
filled with what looked like pasta shells overstuffed with meat and
sauce and covered in cheese.
    “Stuffed pasta
shells, garlic bread and salad,” she announced, setting the pan on
a pad, she threw off the mitts with an expert flick of her wrists
and her eyes went back to him. “Baked pears with cream and
chocolate sauce for dessert,” she told him, reaching to pull open
the drawer by his hip. “I ate my dessert too,” she admitted.
    “If that’s as
good as it smells, I’ll forgive you,” he told her.
    “It is,” she
smiled then bent her head, grabbed a serving spoon and shut the
drawer.
    “Who taught you
to cook?” he asked as she served up the shells.
    “Mom,” she
replied.
    “Is your mother
close?” he enquired.
    “I like to
think so,” was her strange and, Cash thought, evasive answer.
    Cash didn’t let
it go.
    She might wish
to remain distant but he didn’t want that and he bloody well paid
enough to have her as close as he wanted her.
    Which was
exactly what he was going to get if he had to tie her down