Page 81 of God of War (Legacy of Gods)

Her dewy skin is electric to the touch, or maybe it’s because I want her, so much that it’s starting to mess with my equilibrium.

Not to mention, I’ve been suffering with all manner of blue balls since the day she rode and came apart on my fingers.

I close my hand around her nape underneath her hair and look down at her as she sucks in a stuttering breath.

My head lowers and I nibble on her earlobe until she shudders. Once she angles her head to the side, baring her delicate throat and pulse point, it’s physical torture not to feast on it.

And her.

Because there’s no way in fuck I’ll be able to keep myself in check once I start. It’s challenging enough to watch her walking around in skimpy clothes and tiny pajamas that I swear were made to taunt me.

“Do I need to remind you of what will happen when you misbehave, Mrs. King?”

She clutches her smoothie cup tighter, nails digging into it so harshly, I’m surprised it doesn’t break.

“Or are you doing this on purpose so I’ll use you again?”

This time, she elbows me in the side. Hard.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I have no interest in a redo of your subpar performance.”

“Your cunt that shattered all over my fingers would argue otherwise. In fact, if I reach beneath your skirt, I’ll find you dripping for me, wife.”

“You wish.” Her words are low, barely audible.

“Do you dare to bet?”

“Unless I can bet to keep you a few continents away from me, I’m not interested.”

The clearing of a throat prevents me from putting my wife in her place—or attempting to, however temporarily.

Sam has returned and she juts her head in the direction of Henderson, who’s at the entrance of the dining room.

I rise to my full height and button my jacket, but don’t release Ava. She doesn’t seem to loathe the contact either, or perhaps she forgot about my hand surrounding her nape.

“We have the post, sir.”

“And that’s important enough to interrupt me?” I don’t hide the venom in my tone.

Ava elbows me again. “Stop being a dick.”

And then she directs her sunshine smile to my assistant. “Thank you, Leo.”

“My pleasure, Mrs. King.”

“His name is Henderson,” I say.

“That’s his last name, and this isn’t the twentieth century,” she shoots back. “Besides, Leo is a cute nickname.”

He smiles a little, but it promptly disappears when I level him with a glare.

Perhaps it’s about time to act on my murder threats and bury the sorry sod where the sun doesn’t shine.

As if sensing my thoughts, Henderson places the letters on the table before me and retreats, probably to polish his casket.

Ava skims through them, placing mine and the house bills to the side, then flies through her subscription fashion and music magazines and mail from the dozens of orchestras of which she’s one of their top patrons.

The woman donates to orchestras as if they’re charities. Apparently, some of them are struggling and they wouldn’t be able to continue doing cheap shows for the general public without hefty donations from families like ours.

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