Page 27 of The Rogue and His Flower

“Porn could be classed as trash TV, I suppose,” he muses. “Though that really depends on the calibre of porn you’re watching. Sounds like you haven’t been watching the right kind.”

I wrinkle my nose. “I’ll leave that to you, thanks.”

“So you’re a prude?”

“I amnot,” I protest. “I just happen to prefer my imagination, if that’s all the same to you.”

“Whatever floats your boat,” he smirks. “We have a cinema room in the basement that’s quite comfortable.”

“A cinema room? Of course you do,” I reply, blowing out a breath.

“And with high definition,andsurround sound, it makes watching porn all the more…intimate,” he adds with a smirk.

“I bet you justlovethat, Mr I-Can’t-Keep-It-In-My-Pants,” I retort.

Another laugh bubbles up his throat as I pull a face. It’s not as if I haven’t watched porn before despite what I just said, but I don’t ever intend on watching any with Dalton Gunn, thanks very much. Can’t have him getting any ideas. Not that he’ll need any. I’m pretty sure Dalton is the type of man to film a sex tape. He’s probably got a whole raft of them to keep him occupied for the entirety of our marriage.

“So… Trash TV instead then?”

“Fine,” I huff, glad at least for the change of subject. “Lead the way, but be warned, my taste in TV shows is questionable at best.”

“Drix has told me as much,” Dalton replies, his hand briefly pressing against my lower back as he guides me along the hallway. “Pretty sure he said you binged watched an entire series ofBikers with Tatsin one afternoon.”

“What can I say, I’m partial to a biker with tattoos,” I retort with a shrug.

“Then aren’t you lucky you’re engaged to one,” he replies, smirking as my cheeks flush a deep pink.

“You’re notthattype of biker,” I counter.

“I ride motorbikes. I have tattoos,” he points out, opening a door to his left that leads to a stairwell into the basement. “I think that qualifies.”

“You also live in an obnoxious mansion big enough to house the entire town, drink Veuve Clicquot like it’s water, and own most of the businesses in Princetown.”

“Minor details.”

Five minutes later we’re seated next to each other on the plush leather recliners sipping sparkling water and watching a reality TV show about aspiring designers battling it out in a high-pressure fashion house. When the first episode comes to an end, Dalton reaches for the remote control and pauses the screen.

“So when did your interest in fashion start?” he asks, shifting in his seat to face me.

“You really want to know?”

“We’re supposed to be communicating, right? I’m communicating.”

“I guess.”

“So…” he prompts, folding his arms across his chest as he waits.

“I fell in love with fashion when Hubert took me to a children’s clothing store the first week me and Drix moved in with him. Neither of us had much when we arrived, apart from the hand-me-down clothes we were provided with by our foster parents.”

He winces at that, and his reaction makes my stomach coil with anxiety. I’m not ashamed of the fact I was adopted or thefact I was poor, it just serves to remind me how different we truly are.

“Go on,” he encourages.

“I remember walking into the store and being so overwhelmed by all the colourful outfits,” I explain, smiling softly at the memory. “We were there for hours.”

“I can imagine Drixenjoyingthat,” Dalton says with a smirk.

“He hated every minute, but me, I was in heaven.”

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