Page 79 of War

Wifey: At the dance studio. I’ll be done here in an hour or so. Let me know where you want to go to talk, and I’ll meet you there.

Me: I’ve got the address. I’ll pick you up.

Wifey: Tyler Warren, you better not intimidate my dance instructor.

Me: I wouldn’t dream of it.

My wife loves to taunt me. It took a little time to find the right room, but when I did, all my effort was rewarded.

Ava is stretching on a barre, her long leg extended against it, her back rounded in a way that highlights the curves of her ass and hips. Her smooth, pale skin is covered by a long-sleeve black leotard and absolutely nothing else. Maybe it’s the contrast between the black fabric covering her arms and her bare legs, but today,the look is even hotter.

When she spots my reflection, I have to bite my fist to hide my smile. I’m still in the suit I donned for traveling, and my hair is a mess—I’ll blame it on the agitation that ate at me while I was searching for her—but we look exquisite together. Just like we did that first day. Me fully clothed and prowling toward her like a predator, her my innocent prey.

“Are you ready to begin, mon chérie?”

At the sound of the masculine voice, we both startle.

Instantly, I spin, my eyes skewering the man talking tomy darling wifein his fake French accent with his fake French name.

When he sees me, he straightens. “Can I help you? This is a private class, but you can browse the list of available classes in the front hallway.”

Before I can speak, Ava pipes up. “He was just leaving.”

“Oh, do you know him?” He assesses me now, eyeing me as if he stands a chance to earn Ava’s favor. Not that it matters. There’s no choice. She’s mine. Contract or not, it’s all in her glare. My wife is just as obsessed with our games as I am.

“Just my husband having a little temper tantrum,” she says to him, though she keeps her green eyes locked on me. “I told him I was busy for the afternoon, and he doesn’t know how to take no for an answer.”

“I don’t.” With a slow, devious grin, I take a step closer. My blood heats as her scent—vanilla and coconut—grows stronger.

“I didn’t realize she was married,” he says behind me. “You don’t wear a wedding band.”

I grasp her left hand and inspect it in an exaggerated manner. The emerald I slid onto her finger is right where it should be. I hold up her hand to him and ask whether he’s the type of man who goes after women who look as though they’re engaged. “Alors tu es le genre d’homme qui s’en prend aux femmes fiancées?”

He blinks at me, clearly not understanding a word of the language from the country he feigns relation to.

I demand an answer. “Réponds-moi, oui ou non?”

I can’t hold back the chuckle when the man nods aggressively. What a fucking idiot. But the man is right about one thing. My wife doesn’t have a wedding band. I’ll need to rectify that soon.

Focusing my attention back on her, I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her close, locking her hand between our bodies, and press my lips to the space where a band should be, marking her.

“Hello, Vicious,” I whisper.

“Hello, husband,” she says, lips quirking.

She spins her hand, but I tug it closer and kiss her wrist, my eyes on her the entire time. “Enjoy your dancing.”

“Enjoy the show,” she murmurs, knowing I’ll never leave her here. No, for the next hour, she’s going to torture me. Make me watch her sway those hips and smile at the man still watching us. And I’m going to love every minute of it.

“Are you proud of yourself?” I hold the door to the dance studio open for my wife.

“Actually, yes.” She brushes by me, her fingers sliding against my chest.

Fuck, this woman drives me mad.

I grab her hand and pull her back before she can get away. “Really?”

Ava presses both hands to my chest and looks up at me from beneath long lashes, her green eyes alight and her lips wet from rolling her tongue across them. “Yup. It’s ridiculous, I know, but I love seeing you all jealous over me.”

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