Page 92 of Menace in Vegas

Meanwhile, I sit in a lumpy chair across the room with my arms crossed like a pissed-off Victorian ghost.

Every muscle in my body is clenched in protest as I try not to notice the way his abs flex when he shifts. Or how his damp hair curls slightly around his ears and over his forehead. Or how his stupid biceps look carved from stone.

I’m in hell!

“Why are you all the way over there, baby?” he asks, casual as sin.

“Because I’mnotgetting in that bed with you!”

He chuckles. “You’ve been in my bed before, sweetheart. I think we’re past the ‘separate sleeping arrangements’ phase.”

“Shut up, Connor.”

He grins, then pats the bed. “Come here, wife.”

I whimper.

Fuck! What is wrong with me?

He manifested this somehow. Like a spell, taking away my free will.

I fight whatever hold he has on me.

“Nope,” I blurt, bolting from the chair. “I’m sleeping in the bathtub.”

His brow lifts. “The bathtub?”

“Yup.” I slam the bathroom door, toss a towel into the tub, climb in, and wrap another towel around myself like armor.

I lie there, muttering, “I have officially lost my goddamn mind.”

Less than a minute later, the door creaks open.

“What the hell, Connor!” I shriek. “Get out!”

He leans against the frame, shirtless and smug. “Baby.”

“Don’t ‘baby’ me! Get out!”

“You seriously think you’re sleeping in there?”

Fucker! Why is he ignoring my commands?

“Yes!”

He grins. “Guess I’ll sleep in here with you, then.”

I launch a mini shampoo bottle at his head. “Get. Out!”

He ducks, laughing.

In one terrifyingly fast movement, he grabs me and throws me over his shoulder.

“Connor! Put me down!”

“Nope.” He hauls me from the bathroom and tosses me onto the bed like I weigh nothing.

I bounce on the bed. I stare up at him, stunned at how easily he swooped me up.

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