Page 192 of Hateful Games

“And we’re getting late,” I say, intertwining our hands and walking out of the living room and outside where the limo is waiting for us. Along with two more cars, who will follow along with the bodyguards driving them.

Rosalie steps forward, lifting the long skirt so it doesn’t come in the way. She whirls around when another flash goes off as I click a second picture. I disregard her outraged shriek and stomping of her foot as I observe the picture.

My vision turning red.

I can perfectly see her round ass, meaning so can everyone else at the reception. Her too sexy picture will be plastered everywhere. Not on my watch.

On one hand, I want to demand she throw away that dress. On the other, I don’t have the heart because she’s an exquisitely stunning vision tonight. I want to walk down the carpet with her proudly on my arm. I want everyone, especially men, at the party to know she’s all mine.

I don’t care if it makes me sound like a caveman.

Because that’s exactly what Rose makes me feel.

Crazy. Obsessive. Possessive.

Quickly, I fire off a text to my assistant instructing that no media is allowed to photograph us, lest they want to face my wrath and lose their livelihood.

“Haven’t you seen me naked enough times to be resorting to this?” Rosalie accuses after staring daggers at my phone, blind to my intentions.

“Exactly. I’m the only one who should be seeing you naked.” Nostrils flaring, I glare at her and taunt, “You don’t seem to care if the world will too.”

“Perhaps think twice before ripping my dress,” she sasses back and turns to situate her ass in the back seat of the limo.

I follow after her and sit beside her, shutting the door. Stubborn little thing tries to rise and move across from me. But I use the momentum to bring her down on my lap just as the limo starts to glide down our driveway.

Sliding my fingers up her right thigh through the slit, I wrap them around her flesh when she squirms to get up. Pushing my hand close to her heat, I dig my nails into the soft skin until she stills and command, “Behave, Rose.”

The fight melts from her limbs.

“Good girl.” I don’t lift my hand, keeping it both as a warning and because I crave to feel her under my palm. Her shy gaze flicks my way when I tease, “No Kindle tonight?”

“I didn’t bring my purse.”

Circling her waist, I open the hidden compartment beside the minibar and take out the brand new and latest Kindle I bought for her. I pass it to her. “Here.”

“You bought me a Kindle?” she asks, amazed. “Why? I already have one.”

“I bought one for each of my cars so you don’t have to worry about carrying it everywhere. Or forgetting like you do your phone.”

“That’s thoughtful of you,” she whispers breathlessly, clutching the e-reader tighter. The city lights dancing on her face. “I’ll pay y—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence,” I growl. “Hate me all you want but you won’t rob me of my right as your husband to spoil you however and as often as I please. Trust me, I have every intention of doing it every chance I get.”

“What if I were to gift you something super expensive? Will you accept it?”

“It’s not a competition, Rose.” I smirk and caress her cheek. “But if you ever do gift me anything, I’m going to proudly show it off, that my wife bought it for me.”

“Oh,” she murmurs cutely.

Shaking my head, I nod toward her lap. “It’ll be another hour before we reach the venue. Why don’t you go ahead and read?”

“You don’t mind?”

I sense my adorable bookish girl’s eagerness to bury herself into a book. “No, Rose.”

“Okay.”

I spread my legs so she’s sitting comfortably on my lap. She shifts sideways and leans into my shoulder, eyes glued to the Kindle as she logs into her account. Instead of looking at the city fly by, I watch my wife become lost to the world—including me—as she becomes riveted by the words on the screen.

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