Page 66 of Wicked Spite
“Why are you staring?” she asks, eyebrow raised, a smirk playing on her lips.
“Because you’re my wife and I fucking can,” I reply, letting a smug grin spread across my face.
All she does is roll her eyes at me before sitting down and eating the fancy pasta dish Oakley made.
I should be eating my own fucking plate, but I can’t help but watch her as she consumes her food, making noises and doing a little shimmy. I grip the back of my neck, because Jesus fuck it hits me all at once. I do fucking care about my wife.
Unable to deal with this I resort to my default setting.
“Make sure to wear the dick-gloss tonight.” Before I walk off to go shower and get ready.
The chaotic energy of the concert pulses through the air, a living, breathing entity of sound and sweat. Reagan stands in front of me, lost in the music, her body swaying to the beat. The pit is packed with bodies, each movement jostling us closer together. I snarl at anyone who dares to get too close. My eyes narrowed into slits as I stake my claim.
I keep Reagan close, my arm a protective cage around her waist. She fits perfectly against me, and every time some idiot gets too close, I give them a look that promises pain. I feel theweight of my possessiveness for Reagan bearing down on me like a heavy chain.
“How did you manage to get these tickets last minute?” she shouts over the deafening roar of the band, her voice slicing through the cacophony.
My lips curl into a wicked smile as I lean down, bringing my mouth close to her ear. “I know someone,” I reply, my breath hot against her skin.
Reagan’s brow furrows in skepticism. “Yeah? Who?”
I straighten up, letting my gaze drift momentarily to the crowd before looking back at her. “It’s better if you don’t know,” I say. The truth is tangled in darkness and blood, threads that Reagan is better off not pulling at. “Let’s just say they’re…connected.”
She rolls her eyes, a flash of irritation crossing her face. “Whatever,” she mutters, turning back to the stage. The music swells, guitars screaming and drums pounding in a frenetic symphony of chaos.
The scent of sweat and beer mingles with the smoke from fog machines, filling my nostrils with every breath.
The lead singer’s voice pierces through the air, raw and electric. Reagan throws herself into the music again, her movements fluid and hypnotic. I watch her lose herself in the sound. Her guard momentarily dropped.
A tall guy with neon green hair crashes into us, his body knocking into Reagan’s shoulder. My hand shoots out instinctively, gripping his arm like a vise. “Back up, turn around and leave or I’ll fucking kill you,” I growl.
He blinks at me through dilated pupils before nodding frantically and backing away into the mass of bodies.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she says, though there’s no real reprimand in her tone.
“I did,” I say simply.
“It’s a concert. People are going to bump into other people.” She rolls her eyes at me.
“And they can bump into every single person here and the goddamn Pope, but the one fucking person they won’t be bumping into is you. You’re a goddamn Blackwood.” I say so matter-of-factly that I don’t even realize it’s come out of my mouth until seconds later.
“Penn, you’re going to scare everyone off,” Reagan says, turning her head slightly, her lips curling into a smirk.
“Good,” I grunt, not easing up on my glare. A tall guy with a nose ring gives me a wide berth after one look at my face.
“Possessive much?” she teases, leaning back against me. Her hair brushes my cheek, soft and fragrant.
“Just keeping what’s mine safe,” I growl, my hands resting on her hips as I press my fingers into the sliver of skin between her crop top and leather pants.
“Both men and women are competition for you, you know,” she quips, her voice dripping with sarcasm. Her eyes glint with mischief as she looks up at me over her shoulder.
“Like I’d lose to any of these assholes,” I scoff, rolling my eyes. “Besides, we both know you couldn’t handle anyone else.”
“Keep telling yourself that, psycho,” she laughs, a dark, melodic sound that sends jolts right to my dick. “Just because I’m bi doesn’t mean I’m easy prey.”
“Never said you were,” I reply, my voice low and rough. “But let’s be real. No one’s got what I have.” My grip tightens on her, grounding myself in the feel of her.
“Arrogance or psychoticness?” she challenges, arching an eyebrow. Her breath hitches as I lean down, my lips brushing her ear.
