Page 91 of Red Flag, Green Light

He dips, kissing my forehead, the birthmark on my cheek, the corners of my eyes. “How do you imagine I go about doing that?”

How do I imagine he should force me into marriage?

Hm…

I stretch my toes, abandoning my shoes somewhere on the outskirts of the blanket and pillow nest. “Kidnap my favorite books…”

“The signed editions of your Rouge collection?”

I cut my attention off him. “Oh, who could say?”

“What am I to do with the kidnapped books? Hold them for marriage ransom?”

“Don’t be boring. Obviously, you have to kidnap me next, then threaten to burn my books right in front of me if I don’t comply. Props if you have the infrastructure to chain me to the ceiling with just enough leeway so I can kneel.”

Mars arches a brow. “I’m beginning to think you don’t know how to behave even a little.”

“I need the freedom to fall dramatically to my knees in anguish as you hold the most precious things I own near a crackling death.” Drawing my arms out of the blankets, I raise them above my head against the jump mat, taut. “Can you picture it?”

Molten lava couldn’t look as hot as Mars’s eyes right now. Roughly, he murmurs, “Vividly.” His fingertips dance up my arm, then his grip tightens around my wrists.

My heart leaps toward him.

“Look more eager for me, why don’t you?” He buries his face against my neck and tortures me. I squirm while he kisses, nips, tastes, wraps his teeth around my choker lock andpulls. As the metal tightens, his face returns to my field of view.

And I amdying.

I feel my swallow against the cold metal of the chain asstarkly as I feel my heart racing for this man.

It is a painting. He is a painting. An exclusive, special-edition-only painting. Full color. On the first inside pages. Against the hardback cover. For a complete, delectable flat lay.

When he drops the chain from his teeth, I am unprepared for the way itthudsagainst my chest. When he rolls off me, I make an embarrassing sound in protest. When he laughs, I dissolve.

“You know what to do if you want more,” he says.

“You’d tease me even if we were married.”

He tilts his head toward me. “You’dbegme to.”

Oh, I would most definitely plead. “Your point?”

“No point. Just…” Unraveling his arm from the blankets, he offers his hand. Unwittingly, I clasp it, and he tangles our fingers before plunging them into the warmth of the blankets again.

His eyes close. He says, “No point at all.”

Peace caresses his features.

I murmur, “Mars?”

“Yes, my dearest love?”

Everything inside me comes undone, and I melt against his shoulder, wrapping my free arm around his waist. “Nothing.”

Natural as breathing, his body angles itself to accommodate me, and then—right as I think we’re going to nod off—we talk.

About everything. Anything. His mom. Mine. His brother. My favorite foods. The way he wakes up and what his morning routine consists of. The way I hoard makeup that I have used maybe three times in the past three years. All within the same week.

My voice goes raw first, but I don’t want to stop, so I murmur anything to keep him talking. Right around the time his voice is starting to get hoarse, he whispers into my hair a disconnected, heartfelt, “I love you,” and I’m glad my throat can’t handle a response.

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