Page 120 of Hateful Games

“If you don’t want to be one of those bunnies, then don’t touch him,” she taunts. “He hates anyone touching him.”

“Why?”

“He’s a rescue.”

I glance at him, seeing him wary of me and still glaring with his lips pulled back over his sharp teeth. “What happened to his previous owners?”

“He killed them.”

My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline before I mask my slipup. Then another thought pops in my head and I causally ask, “Where exactly will Maggie, Fire, and Bunny be sleeping, wife?”

“The bed, obviously.”

“You mean our bed.”

“Technically, the hotel’s bed.”

“Not a chance.” I eye Bunny, who seems to be hating me by the second. We sleep in the same room and I will not see the sun tomorrow, considering his history. If it’s even true. “They’ll sleep right here. On second thought, tie all of them up.”

Rosalie’s chin lifts defiantly. “No.”

“Rose.” My tone is low.

“You, on the other hand, are most welcome to sleep right here on the couch.” Turning around, she disappears into the bedroom. Her little army in tow.

Running my finger through my hair, I count to five to pray for some patience I’ll need to deal with them. Kicking the pampered heathens out is out of the question.

It was written all over Rosalie’s face she’s just as attached to them as they are to her. And if I want to stay in my wife’s good graces, which is essential to my life, I better come up with a way to tolerate them fast.

Shrugging off my suit jacket, I make my way inside. A squeaking noise greets me, making me frown. I stop short to see the mini dogs all perched on the bed comfortably while the huge one jumps up and down on the comforter.

There goes the security deposit.

Too bad, everyone will think it was the couple who broke the bed.

While Bunny is distracted, I inch toward the ajar bathroom door and step inside. Rosalie startles when I slam it shut and twist the lock. Leaning my shoulder against it, I cross my arms.

“Get out,” she orders. “It’s occupied.”

“I’m your husband, you can change in front of me.”

“You’re either delusion or hard of hearing,” she mocks with a hand on her hip. “When I said I’m not sleeping with you, it included you never seeing me naked.”

“It’s called fucking, dear wife.” Lazily dragging my gaze down her slim figure, I travel them back up to meet her eyes and drawl, “And I don’t mind fucking you with your clothes on. I’ll just slide your panties to the side and thrust my cock in. There’s always the option of ripping them off. Or you could save us time by not wearing any at all. Whichever makes you happy.”

“You never touching me will make me happy.”

“Sorry. Not an option.”

“Get that otolaryngologist’s appointment.”

Even as she insults me and throws daggers with her eyes, her body is telling a different story. Rosy cheeks, flushed skin, and her fingers twisting in her skirt. Her supple breasts look seconds away from bursting out of the neckline. The top half of her dress is cinched so tight that I can easily fit her tiny waist in my palms.

She couldn’t possibly be comfortable breathing in it.

I slowly notice little things that she unpinned her hair from its intricate bun, letting it fall down in silly and curled rivulets. The lack of makeup, even though her lips are still dark pink. While the back of her dress looks like she was in the middle of untying the lace.

Leaving my perch, I close the gap.

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