Chapter 18

I never thought I was the type of woman who'd be fucked senseless.

But…

I grin.

Mission accomplished, I guess.

King was…

A force of nature. A god. A…king?

Yes to all of those.

And he hadn't even taken off his pants.

I hadn't even been able to taste him, to touch him beyond the silken dark locks I gripped as he worked me with fingers and tongue and then fingers and tongue?—

And again.

I shift on the mattress, muscles sore, clit on fire, and yet feeling the slightest bit empty.

Because I didn't get the hard press of his cock stretching me, didn't feel the powerful thrusts of his thighs pushing mine wide, didn't experience the slap of his balls against me as he fucked me good and fierce and deep.

Because I know he'll be all of that.

Know he'll be more.

But after that last orgasm—my fourth (and what kind of sex gods were at work here to make that a real-life thing?)—I hadn't been able to so much as move.

Not a hand. Not an eyelid.

Nothing.

I'd just laid there as he gently brushed his lips over mine, giving me a taste of myself when his tongue tangled with mine, the evidence of his unmet desire pressing against my hip before he'd slipped out of bed, tucked the blankets over me, and disappeared into the bathroom.

Something I only deduced because of the door closing and the sound of water turning on dimly reaching my ears.

And I hadn't even heard him leave.

The pleasure-induced haze he'd left me in transforming into a pleasure-induced slumber.

I'd woken with the sun much higher in the sky than normal, managed to stumble to the bathroom, not feeling the bruises, the healing cuts on my feet, and showered.

Using King's soap.

Surrounded in the clean, spicy scent of him. The water sliding over my skin just like his fingers and tongue had hours before.

Now, I'm using my concealer—I've become intimately acquainted with it—to cover the yellow bruises on my cheek and jaw and throat. There's not much to do about the abrasion on my cheek, but luckily that's mostly healed, and I gave up on wrapping my ribs a while ago, tired of the restriction that came with the tight bandage, especially when they were feeling better.

So loose clothes, my comfiest bras, and more makeup than I normally wear.

And no heels.

Mostly because King had stolen them and stashed them somewhere…

And honestly?

I didn't want to wear them right now anyway.

I dab one more spot, ensuring the bruises are completely covered no matter the lighting, and then add some blush, liner, and mascara before calling it good. I don't know if Stella's going to be downstairs, but I want to be presentable if she is.

"That's as good as it's going to get," I murmur, capping the mascara and moving from the room.

I tug the blankets up in a halfhearted attempt at making the bed, knowing instinctively that King won't care if it's perfect, if the comforter isn't evenly folded over, the pillows straight, not a wrinkle in sight.

He doesn't sweat stuff like this.

Hell, he'd probably just make a note to add it to one of his lists in his Life Planner.

?? Give Rory orgasms.

?? Leave her in a pleasure-hazed slumber.

?? Make bed when she manages to crawl her ass downstairs.

Check. Check. Check.

I grin, smooth out a particularly bad wrinkle in the comforter, then go downstairs to find Zeus.

The crate in the bedroom is empty, but I know that King has a few gates up on the first floor, making a safe space for Zeus without giving the mischievous fluff ball full reign of the house. I'm not sure, though, if he had time to walk the pup.

What with my multiple orgasms and all.

My grin widens and I hurry down the stairs.

He's a good pup, but hours alone in the house is still a recipe for disaster…or at least, for the shoes on the shoe rack.

But when I turn the corner, I see that my walking services aren't required.

Zeus—still wearing his harness, though his leash is folded on the counter—is sitting like a little angel next to Stella, who's bent over a cutting board full of green apples.

"Hi, sweetheart," Stella says glancing up from the apple she's peeling.

Using a knife, the skin coiled up in one long spiral. Her eyes meet mine, but the knife doesn't stop.

And she doesn't cut off her finger either.

Just keeps peeling that apple.

"Hi," I say, feeling more than a little awkward.

"Woof!" Zeus says, springing up and sprinting toward me, his little fluffy booty shaking.

"Hey, baby," I croon, crouching down and scratching him exactly as I've discovered he likes—just behind his adorably large ears and massaging upward…along with plenty of butt scratches.

He melts under my touch, reminding me of how effectively King had made me melt not all that long ago.

When I straighten after giving him a good long rubdown, I see that Stella's watching me, her eyes gentle and her mouth quirked.

"Is this for the famous apple pie that everyone has been raving about?" I ask, moving toward the stack of apples, both peeled and unpeeled.

She nods. "It sure is."

I should probably leave her be, should get to work, let her make this for her son.

But my feet won't let me make the move.

And then my mouth opens, tongue and throat forming the words.

"Will you teach me how to make it?"

"Cheese?" I ask incredulously thirty minutes later as I watch Stella layer a thin layer of white cheddar over the pie crust—store-bought because, quote, "No one who's actually busy in real life has time to make homemade pie crust."

"Just pies?" I'd teased.

She'd given me a good-natured wink. "Pie filling."

"From scratch," I'd pointed out.

That had earned me a light swat…and another apple to peel.

Then she'd asked me about work and we'd talked about nothing and everything.

Until it came to…

Cheese.

She smiles up at me, hands still layering. "Yes," she says as though imparting state secrets—and I suppose she is considering how much I heard about the deliciousness that is Stella's apple pie over the short time I've known her son. "It melts beneath the apples and makes everything creamy." A sigh, clearly appreciative of all the healing properties of cheese.

(I approve).

"And it adds a contrast to all of the sweetness in the filling. You can make it without it," she says, nodding at me to pick up the bowl of apples we've peeled and sliced and coated with sugar and cinnamon, "but it's not nearly as good."

"I'm excited to try it," I tell her honestly after I've dumped the apples into the cheese-filled crust. I set the bowl in the sink and start to wash up.

"We'll give you the first slice," she says as she slides the pie into the oven. "With ice cream."

"That sounds delicious."

She blows on her knuckles, buffs them on her shoulder. "Oh, it will be. Maybe we'll eat the whole thing and not leave a crumb for King and his buddies." Her grin is so mischievous, so much like King's when he's pushing my buttons that I can't help but grin back, my belly filling with butterflies. "It would be the least that little stinker deserves after all the gray hairs he gave me."

I open my mouth, intending to ask her for her best story—purely for fake fiancée research purposes (and not for blackmail), but her phone starts ringing.

"Excuse me," she says, hitting the button to silence the call. "What were you going to say?"

"Oh, that's okay." I snag the sponge, start scrubbing the sides of the bowl. "I'll clean up here. You can go ahead and?—"

She swipes the sponge from my hands. "Nice try, honey. You cooked and did the dishes last night. The least I can do is clean up after myself today."

"It wasn't a big deal," I hedge. "Plus, you'd traveled all day. I'm sure you were tired."

Stella dries her hands on a towel then reaches over and touches my cheek. "You're a sweet girl."

I suck in a breath.

"I was tired, but I could have managed. It was nice of you to be understanding of me barging in though, and to go a step further and cook and clean." Her touch turns into her cupping my cheek. "I see it, and I appreciate it."

"Stella," I whisper.

Because I don't know what to say to that.

"Add in hanging with your fiancé's mom all morning, learning her son's favorite recipe, and fighting over doing the dishes?" She smiles, squeezes my arm. "Thank God one of my boys finally picked right."

Guilt slices through me, and I have no clue how to respond.

King didn't choose me.

He's not my fiancé…even though I kind of wish he was.

Because that would mean that Phillip had never been and?—

Her phone rings again, and she glances down at the screen with a sigh. "I guess I'd better get that." She narrows her eyes at me. "No dishes, missy, and I mean it." She points a finger at me then scoops up her phone and walks out of the room, her voice echoing back to me.

I smile.

But I do the dishes anyway.

Because they're dirty and need to be washed, and it's not like I'm going to disappear into King's office without a word, expecting Stella to serve me my pie.

Something I'm glad of when she comes back into the room, her brows furrowed with concern.

"Is everything all right?" I ask.

"It was my friend, Cathy," she says and I push down the shiver that name induces. Just because my stepmom Cathy was the worst doesn't mean there aren't perfectly nice other Cathys in the world.

Stella sighs, and I set the sponge in the holder, turn to fully face her.

"We're supposed to meet later," she says, "but Cathy wants to get together now, apparently."

I draw my brows together, confused as to why she sounds a bit put out, especially when it comes to meeting her friend.

But she goes on, clarifying. "Unfortunately, she has to want that when I have a pie in the oven."

"Oh," I say, the pieces sliding into place. "I can watch the pie," I tell her.

"What about your call?"

I have several work meetings today, but nothing critical—hence me hanging in the kitchen and peeling apples with my fake future mother-in-law.

I shrug. "I'll grab my laptop and take it from here." I nod to the island. "Plus," I add with a smile when the furrows between her brows don't ease, "that means I get first crack at that slice."

She softens, palm coming up to touch my cheek again. "Sweet," she murmurs before dropping it away, gaze gliding over the sink.

I wince.

Because, yeah, I did those dishes.

She sighs softly, but her lips are turned up as she walks over to the oven and peeks inside. She fiddles with the timer then turns back to me. "When that goes off, let it sit for thirty minutes if you can wait that long. Then enjoy."

I nod. "Got it."

"Thank you, honey." A beat as she pockets her phone. "You'll tell King I'll see him tonight?"

"Of course."

Another smile and pat of my cheek, and then she's disappearing upstairs, coming back down a few moments later in a nice blouse, her jacket folded over her arm.

We exchange goodbyes.

And then she's gone, leaving me in an empty kitchen, the delicious smell of apple pie in the air.

I look around, almost expecting her to pop back in.

When she doesn't, I go down the hall and retrieve my laptop.

Then I wait for the timer to go off so I can pull out the pie.

But I only manage to give it fifteen minutes before I carve out a slice.

Then nearly die from the nirvana of that first bite.

She's right.

The cheese makes all the difference.