Page 24 of His Bride

I smirk. “I was just thinking of you.”

“Get out.”

“With my dick in my hand.” This catches her attention.

“You’re disgusting,” she spits out, but the blush creeping across her cheeks tells me a different story.

“We were doing pretty disgusting things, yes. You know, in my head.”

Her blush deepens, the red hue cascading down her neck to her chest. The air throbs with awareness, and I don’t cross the threshold.

Not yet.

I just take her in. She’s a work of art in disarray. Her hair, a mess of curls, tumbles carelessly all over her face and shoulders. Her oversized shirt hangs off one shoulder, revealing the soft skin beneath.

She’s delicate, almost fragile, but there's a fire in her that I’m drawn to. If it were only tears, if her eyes shone with sadness, pain, guilt, hurt, I’d leave. Probably.

But they don’t.

Her eyes flitter with anger. They shine with need and desire. She wants this. The fight. A nonverbal conversation in our language.

That throb in the air deepens, and I cross all the lines and thresholds. And close the door.

Her chin lifts and the air grows electric, her tits heaving. She’s fucking perfection. “What? Your handjob wasn’t satisfactory?”

“Not even a little. My palm doesn’t come close to your mouth or cunt.”

Giana sucks in a breath.

She’s my frightened prey and a warrior woman all at once, and it tips my scales all the way into predator mode. Because she’s excited. It’s there in the blue pools of her irises and the delicate flush of her cheeks.

I love the way she fights it, how she tries so fucking hard to show she’s not affected by me, yet it’s impossible for her to hide.

“Asshole!” She throws the bottle, and I catch it. Then I drop it and smile. It’s like someone flipped my switch.

I lunge for her sweetness, but she veers right, to the bed.

“Speaking my language, New York.”

“Screw. You.”

“That’s the idea.”

She scrambles on the bed, throwing pillows that I let hit me and then the floor. “You think I want you after all you said? After…after everything?”

I don’t miss a beat. “Yes.”

“You told me you wished you hadn’t married me.”

“I never said I didn’t want you.” I’m high on her, the scent that wraps around me—that goddamn Turkish rose and patchouli that’s like an opiate to my sense. And the pull of her need, thepush of her resentment, the excitement of it, it makes the air hum with something raw.

I can taste it on my tongue, feel it in my veins. Every inch of me vibrates with her energy. And I’m harder than I was when I had my dick in my hand.

I grab her ankle and pull her to me, her fingers clawing at the bedding.

Her ass rises, and I don’t think she’s wearing panties. In fact, she’s not wearing much, just some fucking oversized shirt that needs to be torn to shreds.

“Let go.” She thrashes.

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