Page 51 of Wicked S.O.B.

“Okay.”

“‘Relax, I’ll be fine.’ Those were your words to me before you went into the bathroom. Do you remember?”

“I know.”

“But a minute later, the asshole had his hands on you. Another asshole was attempting to take you from me. You get why some things need to change from now on, don’t you?” he says.

“Yes.”

“So going forward, two bodyguards with you at all times. Nonnegotiable.”

“Okay.”

“You call me if a fucking black cat walks across your shadow.”

“Understood.”

“And you absolutely do not do anything that even hints at putting you in danger.”

“I promise.”

He takes a step closer, and I feel his breath on my nape. “Good. Thank you. You have my promise that I will take the same precautions.”

Tears flood my eyes. “Thank you.”

“My body. My pussy. My heartbeat. My fucking life. You put them all at risk. I need to claim them all back now. You get that, don’t you, Lucky?”

My moan trails off in a desperate whimper. The sound of the voice distorter is utterly, nerve-shreddingly erotic.

“Was that a yes?”

“Yes! Do it, please.”

“Do what exactly? Chain you to this bed for the next fifty fucking years so you never get the chance to rip my heart out like that again? Or spank the shit out of you for trusting that goddamn cop instead of coming to me for help?”

I bite my lip because I get his need to vent.

“I need an answer, Lucky.”

“Do whatever you want, Q. I’m yours.”

His breath shudders out of him. “Again. Say it again.”

“I’m yours. Always. Forever yours.”

“Get on the bed, beautiful.” His voice is a gruff command.

I turn and head for the bed without looking at him. I’m saving that last, delirious prize for another minute. For a moment, I wish for the blindfold. In its absence, I keep my head lowered as I perch on the edge of the bed.

I see his feet first. Big, strong, and like everything about him, sexy. Then his muscled calves. Powerful thighs. Then, oh God. His thick, beautiful cock, framed proudly against trimmed hair and chiseled abs. Saliva fills my mouth, and I’m wracked with a churning need to touch. To taste.

“My God, Lucky. Your face…you take my breath away,” he says in a charged tone.

It propels my gaze up to his face. Except I’m denied that by the gorgeous mask covering his face. Black and gold, slashed at his cheeks with an opening for his mouth to do terrible and wonderful things to my body.

Q to the last degree.

My breath catches.

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