Page 99 of Bad Little Bride

“Jealousy looks very good on you.” His chest rumbles, his tongue sliding along his lower lip in the most distracting of ways.

“Not as good as red running down and ruining your carpet is going to look if I find out there’s more going on between you and her than a little word play.”

“Would it bother you if there was?”

“That’s the wrong thing to say when I have a gun pointed at your heart.”

“So, that’s a yes.” His hazel eyes shine with satisfaction as he stares down at me. “But can you admit why?”

“I’m married to you.”

He hums, and I swear his chest puffs out.

“If you’ve fucked her in this room, don’t expect me to sleep here anymore, not that you’ve stepped foot into that bed since I’ve been in it. Either way, you’ll have to chain me to the pretty posts for that to happen.”

His teeth sink into his lower lip. “Is that supposed to be a threat?”

His tone is like liquid smoke, sweeping over me with an unexpected heat, and I have the sudden urge to swallow. As if he’s all too aware, his eyes fall to my throat.

I quickly shift my hand, pressing the pistol into his neck, and his lips curve with a salacious smile.

“So feisty, my little bride.”

“This is me calm.”

The man groans.Groans.

It’s deep and masculine and when he draws himself closer, our bodies now pressed together, I suck in a breath. I have a gun to this man’s throat, and not just any gun, buthisgun, in his home. I could pull the trigger and end him right here, right now. His entire legacy would fall, just like that.

He has no heir.

No family as far as blood goes.

He has you, Boston. You’re supposed to give him his heir. Secure his legacy. Make it stronger than ever before.

This time I do swallow.

I am his wife. He is my husband, but we may as well be strangers.

Strangers don’t treat your pussy like the world’s best ice cream in the middle of the stairwell.

I push the thought away as quickly as I can, refocusing.

I’m not delusional. He could have disarmed me by now if he really wanted to, but he hasn’t so much as made a move to try, and I don’t understand why.

He doesn’t know me, so…why is he trusting me with his life?

I push the gun harder into his skin, needing him to snap, to fight for control and fuel the hatred I have to hold on to. He doesn’t, and as I shove the muzzle into his skin, Enzo’s head falls to the side, his lips parted, and my gaze drops to the thick corded vein there, running from his jawline all the way down, disappearing beneath the collar of his dress shirt.

His pulse pounds before my eyes, hard and heavy, right there beneath my kiss, permanently marked into his heated flesh.

Before I know what I’m doing, my knuckle has stretched from where it’s wrapped around the grip, greedily giving in to its own need to touch his now perfectly healed tattoo.

His eyes close, chest rumbling at the feeling, and the sound sends sparks across my skin, doubling down when he shifts the slightest bit.

My husband is hard. Thick and long and pressed against my hip. Suddenly there’s a hollow ache between my legs, begging to be filled. Stretched.

I have no doubt he’d leave an addicting burn behind.

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