Chapter mood; pls listen to wandering romance by Jorja Smith. Trust me-
He woke up to the distant clanging peel of very catholic church bells. The bustle and fuss of car horns blaring and traffic, mopeds zipping along the lively inner city road. Couldn't hear much of it mind- all the way, far up in the royal penthouse suite.
His eyes crack open, blurry foggy from such a deep sleep. His cheek rasps against the ten-million-or-whatever Egyptian cotton thread count sheets. He grumbles. Shifting around, covers slipping down his waist. He slings a big meaty arm across to find Evie. Seeking for her when he's not even conscious. He hits upon the slippery cool paper feel of a hardback instead. He snuffles awake, fully opening his eyes to look across at his Kitten.
She's sat up in bed. Covers thrown off. Knelt on her portion of the super triple emperor sized bed. In that angelic wispy old cotton nightdress. All crumpled up from her sleep. He likes how the lacy straps always seem to slip down, her soft shoulders peeping out. It winds him up. It's got this completely tempting row of little mother of pearl buttons marching along the front of it. Entirely too irresistible to thing how they'll scatter like rain if he rips it off her. He won't- but he won't say he's never been tempted.
She's knelt on the bed. Hair tied messily back in a droopy bun. Wide awake. Back to him. Feet tucked under herself. A library's collections worth of tour guide and travel books fanned out in a semicircle around her. Raggedy worn watermelon post it's flagging out from certain pages. She hears him shuffle to life. Sheets rustling.
His morning voice is that grumpy deep lull that shatters their quiet bedroom. Still the sound of his voice sent tremors through her. Had done since the day she met him.
"I see books continue to be my main rival for your attention." He rumbles at her. Leaning his hand across. Fingers stroking her thigh. Watching her from where his messy bed head lay strewn back, socketed into the plump pillows.
She twists back and smiles at him. She moves over on her knees to plant a kiss on his lips. She's all minty already. Smells like fresh green botanical perfume. Jasmine and geranium croon at him. And the citrus sticky clean of her face cream. She's been up a while judging by that.
He's smiling. Tugging her down to his warm chest. Trapping her there. She's got no chance fighting those arms. Not a hope in hell. Squashed in that strong embrace, hands clasping around her and twisting them so they're both on their sides. Face-to-face. Heads crowding for space on his pillow.
"I'm afraid books will always be your competing nemesis. But they come a very close second to you. Not the other way around." She promises. Kissing the tip of his warm nose. His big hands rasp at the cotton brushing over her curves. Strokes her back. Follows the curved raised hill from her hip to her waist, to her ribs. That c-bout of her body.
She's excited - and he loves it. She's bursting at the seams to get out there and see this sprawling noisy loud city. He knows she'd already have a list of places she wants to see. Museums, Churches and piazza's and Cathedrals. She can drag him anywhere she wants to go. He'll gladly get trailed through Milan if it means he gets to hold her hand.
He insisted they do it all in style- truly no expense spared. Obvious right from the off as he asked Dominick for use of his private jet. Kylo didn't seem like the budget airline type of traveler. They snoozed and lounged on the flight over. Had a four course Michelin star meal. (The plane comes with a chef, Kylo shrugged so modestly) They have pink sparkling Moët and canapés at 30,000 feet. The works.
One thing she loves about Kylo - he wasn't afraid to enjoy things. Things some men would baulk at. Like admitting he needs a manicure or a massage. Or to be pampered cause he knows how good it makes him look and feel. And he's had a severe lack of it these past few years. His masculinity is never in doubt or threat - his overall appearance alone makes perfectly sure of that.
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Sinnerman
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