Page 17 of Sinful Sorrow

Shrugging, I spin on my heels and slip back into the hall. Because I want a shower, too, and I have a bone I’d like to pick with my husband.

“You’re not coming in,” I whisper to the cat. My smile turns into a sneer when she breaks eye contact with the door and instead sends her ire my way. “He’s my husband. Not yours.”

Screw you, Mayet. I’m gonna scratch your face to shreds next time you sleep.

I point my finger, like it’s somehow rational and sensible to do so. “My husband!”

Wrapping my hand around the knob and opening the door in silence, I almost groan out loud when the steam of the shower smacks me square in the face and draws me in. I tiptoe, so I don’t alert Archer, but also, so I don’t wake Cato. Then I close the door again with the softest, quietest snick I can muster, only to turn and jump backwards, slamming against the frame when I find Archer’s ferocious stare burning into mine.

He replaces it quickly, determining his intruder is just the wife, and not, say, a knife-wielding psycho. Then he turns his fury into sweet welcome. “Morning, Minnnnnka.” He opens the shower curtain, revealing all of his six feet-three inches of Malone muscle and the ink that litters his chest and tangles up to touch the bottom of his neck. “You snuck in here so you could join me?”

“Why don’t you love me anymore?” Surprising him with my words, his eyes pop wide as I drag my tank off and drop it to the floor.

“Excuse me?” He releases the curtain and turns to face me fully, setting his hands on his hips and presenting his cock—hard, ready, and pointing my way. “What could I have possibly said or done to make you doubt my love?” Unimpressed, he firms his lips. “I’m routinely accused of obsession. So maybe you could clear the confusion between us.”

I push my pants down, and with them, my underwear, then holding the sink with one hand, I use the other to peel the stretchy fabric over my feet. “I woke up alone.”

“I had to have a shower,” he chuckles. “It happens. Usually once a day.”

“I woke up, dressed. After you put me to bed.”

“Which is typically what happens when men move an unconscious woman from one sleeping place to another.”

“Most men.” I start toward the shower. “Not you. You like to make me naked, and you like to snuggle up to my skin like a creep. But you didn’t undress me last night. Which can only lead me to the conclusion that you no longer love me.”

He grabs my hand and yanks me into the shower, catching me before I ram headfirst against the tile. Then he dips me, practically fucking waterboarding me, until he leans over and presses a kiss to my lips. “You were out cold, and the mornings are getting chillier. Forgive me for trying to be a gentleman.”

“I didn’t marry a gentleman.” I wrinkle my nose and search his perfect emerald eyes. “I married you. And you make a habit of undressing me. If you think now is the time to stop behaving a certain way, I might be inclined to seek an annulment and move on with my next husband. We could enjoy half your fortune and laugh about it while we sip cocktails and vacation in the Caribbean.”

“Your next husband won’t undress you either.” He wraps his palm around the back of my neck and feasts on my lips, as though desperate to taste them after a lifetime apart. “He won’t have hands to use after I cut them off and feed them back to him.”

“You threaten my future soulmate so easily?”

He grins, dragging my bottom lip between his teeth and sliding his hand down to cup the globe of my ass. “I’ll be your future husband, Minnnka. I’ll be every husband you ever have, now, later, and in the next life.” He picks me up, so I choke out a fast, thrilling squeal and wrap my legs around his hips when he tosses me against the wall and pins me.

My breath races already. My heart, pounding in my chest. My vision is half gone from the water in my eyes and a deep, post-infusion sleep. But then he takes my breath away, crashing his lips to mine and stealing every morsel of common sense I thought I woke up with.

“There’s never gonna be a day I don’t love you. But there will be days—most of them—where I think of your best interests over my own.”

“Undress me when you take me to bed.” I reach down between our bodies and hum when I find his cock, thick and needy. Heavy and ready for my body. “Even if it’s snowing and our roof collapses again, I want you to undress me when we go to bed. I’d rather your body keep me warm. Not yoga pants and loneliness.”

“You’re always extra bossy the morning after Factor.” He nips at my bottom lip and releases my thigh to fist his cock instead. He takes control, crushing me to the wall with no care for my best interests in this moment.

A deep, vibrating groan rolls along my throat when he slides the tip of his cock over my pounding clit. But he doesn’t leave me hanging for long. There’s no need to drag things out when we know exactly what the other needs. When we’ve spent almost a year studying each other’s bodies the way we have.

He slams deep inside me, slapping his hand over my mouth when I cry out and risk waking the entire building. Then he pulls back, and barrels forward a second time. He creates a rhythm, pinning me to the wall and bruising my backside with his one, clutching hand. “So fucking tight, Mayet.” He grits out his words by my ear, eliciting a flurry of goosebumps that sprint along my skin and down to touch my toes. Then he nips the warm flesh behind my ear, right where a teeny, tiny, heart tattoo lives.

It was a risk, really. To have someone needle ink into my skin and risk excessive bruising. Infection. Or possibly, if I was truly unlucky, worse.

Just as Archer Malone was a risk. To give someone my heart. My soul. The very key to my life and happiness.

“I’m never giving you up,” he growls, squeezing me, just as surely as I squeeze his cock. “There’s nothing on this planet that would make me fall out of love with you.”

“Undress me.” I bite his palm and cry out when he crushes me to the wall. Then dropping my face to his shoulder, I latch on to his trapezius and sink my teeth in until he snarls. “Every single night.”

“Deal.” He releases me, too fast, too smooth, until my feet hit the floor and my head swims. Then he spins me, slamming my chest to the tile and grabbing my ass, separating the cheeks until he finds what he’s looking for. “Forever, Mayet. Now open up.” He fills me again, but this time, the angle has changed. My back arches, and my feet ache as I spring to the tips of my toes to meet him on his level. My hamstrings fire and my stomach whooshes. But he doesn’t choose caution this morning. He’s not treating me with gentle gloves, all because of a bleeding disorder that rears its ugly head in everything we do.

He treats me the way I beg him to, and wraps his hand around my throat, pulling me back until my legs narrow and my pussy tightens.

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