Page 215 of Hateful Games

I take my time, admiring how the black shirt stretches around his broad shoulders and well-toned physique. The top buttons undone, giving me a lick-worthy view of his hard pecs. His angular face, shrouded in semi-darkness, screams sinister intentions. Danger lurking in those brown orbs that appear almost black in the low light.

He quietly lets me have his fill.

While he’s incinerating me with his.

As though we’re meeting after ages, not a mere two days.

“Should I invite Aiden back?” He sneers the other man’s name, his fingers flexing on his thigh. “You seemed to be following orders better when he was here.”

“No,” I immediately answer.

The tension in his jaw loosens. He snaps his fingers. “Then. Come. Here.”

Scared of darkening his mood more because ultimately I’ll pay the price, I circle the glass table and stop between his legs. My knees almost buckle when he leans forward and presses his palms against the sides of my bare thighs.

Inching his fingers up, he questions, “Do I make you miserable, Rose?”

The out-of-nowhere question takes me aback. He reads the confusion on my face. Still unhurriedly tracing my skin.

“Isn’t that what you had Bianca tell Dash?”

Shit. The excuse she and I came up with that wouldn’t make Dash suspicious. A lot of good it did us. If I answer it was a lie, Nova will take it to mean I like him.

I don’t.

Don’t you?

Nova’s fingers harshly dig into my skin, demanding an answer. I ask one of my own instead. The mystery of it killing me. “How did you find us?”

“Is that how you wanna play?” He toys with the side slit in my dress, close to my hipbone. “Bartering with your husband?”

“It’s only fair.”

His gaze sharpens, mouth curling in displeasure. “Yet you’ve been behaving like a bad little girl all night. Flaunting your tempting curves without me by your side to guard you. How many times do I have to tell you, I vehemently dislike the thought of you without my protection?”

I study Nova’s face closely. The concern plaguing his features. It takes me a moment to realize I’ve been wrong all along. This isn’t for his need to control but something deeper. Reaching forward, I thread my fingers in his messy hair at the back of his neck and murmur, “Nothing is happening to me, Nova. I know how to defend myself.”

“No one is prepared when terror comes,” he ominously replies.

My question dies on my tongue when he distracts me by hooking his finger in my thong against my hipbone. He repeats it on the other side. Without hesitation or care for my permission, he drags it down my thighs, my knees, until it puddles around my feet.

Forcing me to step out of them, he kicks them aside with his boot and spreads my legs. My Louboutins provide me an extra inch of height, which works to Nova’s advantage, putting my pussy right in front of his face.

I eagerly wait for him to flip my dress but he doesn’t. Repeating the tormenting pace, he travels his palm up my legs, pushing them underneath the hem until his warm palm is cupping my aching pussy.

“Nova.” I clutch his shoulders.

His fingers dip between my folds. “Wet.”

My breath stuttering.

“Me or him?” His fingers swirl in my juices before spreading it around my clit. “Who made your slutty cunt soaked, my wife?”

“No,” I whimper, catching his wrist when he stops all movement. Pressing my pussy against him, I use his fingers to rub up and down. “You did.”

“Or have you been wet before walking into this room? Perhaps after sitting through the strip show, huh? Did anyone catch your eye? Did any of them make your heart race as fast as I do?”

“None,” I whisper—because all I kept picturing was you—grinding my clit against his palm.

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