Page 42 of Provoked

He leans down to kiss my lips softly. “You’ve got a better grasp of me than even my own family, Ingrid. I think you know I would never intentionally hurt you.”

I guess I do. “So I’ll be screaming because —?” I ask cautiously, wanting him to spell it out.

He leans down to barely whisper, “You’ll be literally begging to cum on my cock, baby.”

I roll my eyes in disbelief. I’m sure it will be nice and all, but I’m not the screaming sort. I take out my book, determined to finally read the happy ending and then I’m going to hand it toJustin and make him read the entire thing so he understands what romance is really all about.

Kitty’s eyes blinked open, and she stared into the darkened room, trying to get her bearings. Heat radiated down her left side and from the weight slung over her abdomen. She blushed. Oh, Rafe. She peered at his slumbering form without moving her head.

He’d made her beg last night. And the subtle smirk of satisfaction visible on his elegant lips in the candlelight had implied he’d greatly enjoyed it. Which meant it would likely happen again. Kitty’s body trembled at the thought. She could still feel him inside her, when he’d taken her completely after she’d begged for him to end the torment. The torture of his lips all over her body while he held her arms still above her head.

He’d told her just as he pushed inside her tight channel, “Tomorrow night, you’ll learn how to pleasure me with your mouth, dear wife. You’ll need a few days to recover, anyway.”

Kitty felt her core turn liquid at the thought. Tomorrow night was actually tonight, and she could hardly wait. Rafe shifted slightly next to her. His arm tightened across her bare stomach.

“And how is my most unfashionable bride this morning?” he growled near her ear, having turned on his side.

“Unfashionable?” she made a moue of protest in his direction.

“You screamed my name at least five times last night, love. Delightful, but hardly the behavior of a diamond of society. I’ll have to keep you hidden away from scrutiny for quite a while longer until you learn more decorum.” His tone was deeply disapproving, but Kitty determined otherwise when his hand drifted up to cup her right breast, his thumb gently moving back and forth over her nipple, causing it to stiffen to an almost painful peak.

“Yes, my lord. I’m sure you know best, my lord,” she murmured, daring to bring her own hand up to explore the muscles of his shoulder.

His sudden bark of laughter settled any lingering nerves before his mouth descended on hers.

I blink in consternation at the immediate reference to screaming and snap the book shut with fiery cheeks. Justin’s lips purse with amusement like he knows what I just read, which is impossible. But he’s smart enough not to say anything.

Not long after, they dim the lights for the ‘sleep’ phase of the trip and I decide to hide my burning cheeks in the pillow after reclining my seat. I could definitely get used to first class. When I mention that to Justin, he just rolls his eyes. “Sweetheart, you could afford two or three private jets if you wanted them. I think you can safely assume first class will always fit your budget.” He keeps his voice low, but that doesn’t stop me from glancing around to make sure nobody overheard him. It’s hard to tell really with the way the individual pod seats are arranged. I suppose nobody would care, anyway.

I bite my lip and tell him seriously, “Promise you’ll tell me if I start thinking my money makes me important?”

Justin regards me with calm eyes before his hand comes up to cup my jaw. “How’s this? If you start misbehaving, I promise to spank you until you get distracted by other things.” Then he kisses me gently.

“That isn’t what I asked,” I mutter when he pulls back a moment later.

Justin grins. “No, but you know better than to negotiate with me, baby.”

I suppose that’s true. I sigh and roll to my side. I get to go shopping in Paris. I deliberately fill my head with thoughts of filmy lingerie and well-cut summer dresses until I fall asleep.

We walk down the quaint cobblestone streets of old Paris. Watching Ingrid charm the haughty Parisian shop attendants delights me. The best part is, she’s not even trying. She’s simply being Ingrid. And when Ingrid sees beautiful things, her face lights up. Her grammatical errors in schoolgirl French are waved away as she ponders color choices and combinations. And I think that’s her magic. She’s not asking about trends or labels. She’s engaging with the salespeople for what will suit her, which is their specialty. Although I’m sure the lack of a budget makes the whole thing easier.

They also seem to love that she has no interest in consulting my opinion. “He’s already proven he has no taste,” Ingrid tells them at one point with a teasing sniff.

I imagine that might be a dig at her original bedroom decor, but I can’t be sure. I’m glad she has the confidence to know what she likes. She’s still wearing the flirty yellow sundress she picked out at our first stop and wore out of the store. I’ve been visualizing stripping her out of it at every shop since.

Loading the last of the bags into the trunk of the rental car, I ask her, “Do you want to grab a late lunch here or wait an hour or so and find some quaint roadside bistro?”

I already know the answer so I don’t blink when she gushes, “Oh, the bistro definitely. Then I can send some pictures to your mom and sisters. I don’t think Paris is really their speed.”

I have to stop and kiss her for being so sweet as I tuck her into the vehicle. I’m more eager to get to our destination than I am to leave the city, but I keep that to myself. If I’m not careful, Ingrid will work herself into a full case of nerves over tonight.

It’s more like two hours before we find the perfect place to stop. The nearby hills are covered in grapevines and the small stone inn features a cafe. There’s also outside seating under acharming trellis with chickens roaming a nearby enclosure. “Do you suppose French chickens cluck differently than American ones?” Ingrid muses out of the blue.

I watch the birds scratching in the dirt. “I don’t know. And even if these started clucking up a storm, I don’t have enough frame of reference to judge.”

Ingrid grins. “We haven’t talked about where we’re going to live…”

I raise my eyebrows. “But you want it to be someplace with chickens?” I ask dryly.

---