God of Ruin (Legacy of Gods #4) by Rina Kent

A third nipple would’ve been so nice, but no, the asshole had to be physical perfection.

His middle finger that’s all gray with clay wraps around his belt’s loop and pulls. “Want a closer look? My cock would certainly appreciate a second round. Maybe make the acquaintance with your cunt this time?”

My gaze snaps back to his sardonic face I suspect has never known what happiness looks like. And I don’t mean his makeshift joy or the feeling of accomplishment that he fakes so well. But real happiness that the likes of him can probably never feel in this lifetime.

“Why are you half naked, pervert?” I sign.

“You were shivering.”

I look down at myself and sure enough, I’m wearing his shirt and it has nothing to do with an action I’ve taken.

No wonder I’ve been smelling him on me. I chalked it up to earlier, but turns out, he’s actually on me. Well, his shirt is.

“And they say chivalry is dead.” He grins like a hedonistic lord. “You should thank your lucky stars for ending up with a well-mannered gentleman like yours truly.”

“More like cursed stars.”

“Don’t be so negative. Life has brighter sides—namely me.”

I physically roll my eyes, and I don’t usually do that. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“For all the right reasons.” He stubs his cigarette in the ashtray, letting it join a dozen others lying about, and motions at the coffee table where there’s a takeout box. “Eat.”

I lick my lips. “How did you know I was hungry?”

I didn’t get to eat earlier because of this same bastard, so the sight of food makes my stomach growl.

“Because of that. Your stomach was making itself noticeable, even when you were slumbering away.” He chuckles and I inhale deeply, but I smell him more than the food.

He’s all around me, and even metaphorically inside me. It’s a mismatch of colors and emotions that leaves me hopelessly chaotic. I’m unable to process anything when he’s everything I see, hear, and breathe.

I can even taste his cologne on my tongue.

So I choose to focus on something I understand. Food.

It’s Italian—my favorite. But it’s not really that weird that he got it since most people love Italian.

I dig into my pasta without bothering to glance in his direction.

“Your manners must’ve left the building.” His voice echoes around me like the Grim Reaper’s favorite lullaby. “The least you can do is express gratitude for my thoughtful behavior.”

I swallow the mouthful of pasta, put the fork down, and sign, “People who have thoughtful behavior don’t expect gratitude.”

“I do.”

“Thank you.”

A grin lifts his lips. “You’re welcome, little muse.”

“This doesn’t negate the fact that you interrupted my actual dinner.”

“It was totally worth it, and if you weren’t drowning in absolute nonsense, you’d admit it as well.”

I lift my hand to give him the middle finger and he raises a brow. “Just think about where that finger will be if you flip me off.”

I snarl, because I know he absolutely delivers when it comes to threats, and choose to dive back into my pasta.

At least this makes sense.

He definitely doesn’t.

Silence stretches in the living room, minus the sound of the fork against the cardboard plate. It’s strange that he didn’t grace me with one of his over-the-top mocking replies.

I chance a glance in his direction only to find him studying me so closely and coldly, I feel as if I’m being dissected by a mad scientist.

“What?” I sign after I gulp loudly.

“I was just thinking that you look edible in my shirt, possibly more than the food you’re consuming. Want to consummate your push-pull relationship with my cock?”

“No.”

“Doesn’t hurt to ask.” He lifts a nonchalant shoulder. “But mark my words, Mia. You’ll welcome my cock in your tight little cunt, whether by choice or after we do another discovery journey of your kinks. One thing’s for certain, though. He’ll be your favorite flavor.”

I really can’t believe him.

He could easily bag an award for the most arrogant and impossibly unbearable man.

“What about your kinks?” I ask in an attempt to turn the tables on him.

He uses a tool to sculpt the face of the clay statue, his movements smooth and elegant. The discarded pieces fall on the floor, forgotten and without purpose, probably like everyone in Landon’s life.

“What about them?” he asks.

“What are they?”

“My, muse. I know you like me, but you might want to tone it down a bit. Here’s a tip, don’t be obvious.”

“Here’s a tip. Don’t be ridiculous. I asked you about your kinks just like you asked about mine.”

“That’s the thing. I didn’t ask for your kinks, I took you on a discovery journey. You’re welcome, by the way. There’s only one fair way to tell you about my kinks.” His lips curl in a sardonic smile. “Demonstrate them.”

“No, thanks.”

“You sure? Mine are a lot more colorful and fun.”

My lips part. He got hard as he chased me earlier; I felt it, and he didn’t attempt to hide it, so that means he enjoyed that. The whole scene was already too far out of my comfort zone. What could he possibly mean by more colorful?