Page 48 of Don't Make Me Beg
I definitely think I’m going to have bruised ribs in the morning, but otherwise she’s been going along with everything I’ve said… Despite my every attempt to embarrass her.
I know she’s nervous and everything, but I swear, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think my wife may have a bit of a humiliation kink going on.
“Luka, stop telling all her secrets. You’re embarrassing the poor girl,” my mom scolds, reaching a hand across the table to take Scout’s. “It’s all right, dear. I’m sure you have plenty of your own stories about Luka.” She shakes her head with a smile. “I still can’t believe you two were able to keep this hidden from us. Truly, I had no idea you were even speaking. Did your brothers know about this?”
Roman’s eyes widen in surprise at being put on the spot, but before he can respond, Guy nods his head enthusiastically. “Oh yeah. He wouldn’t shut up about her.” He gestures a thumb at Roman. “You should have seen him before they made it official.” He blows out a breath. “I’ve never seen a grown man cry like that.” He elbows Roman, who lets out a grunt. “Isn’t that right, Rome?”
“Oh… um… yep.” Roman winces, rubbing his side in annoyance. “Yeah, he was pretty torn up about it for a while there.”
I glare at my brothers, but neither one of them will look me in the eye. I can’t be too annoyed with them; at least they’re covering for me. There’s no way my parents would believe all the bullshit I’m spewing otherwise.
Somehow the conversation drifts from my crying at work, back to Dr. Drizzle tearing up during a tornado warning while he was live on air.
“Now you know I won’t tolerate toxic masculinity in this house,” my mom shouts over my dad, who’s once again ranting about the local meteorologist.
“No, Mary, it’s not. I’d make fun of anyone who started crying during a thunderstorm.”
“He was afraid, Frank. Men are allowed to have fears, you know!”
“Call me crazy, but I’d prefer my weatherman to not be afraid of theweather!”
I sneak a glance at Scout, who seems to be thoroughly enjoying herself. Whether because she’s had nearly three glasses of wine herself—yes, I’ve been counting—or because she’s relieved to have the attention off her. I can’t be sure.
Her cheeks are a rosy pink and her plump lips are stained with red wine. The thought of biting those lips has crossed my mind more times tonight than I’d like to admit. My hand moves over her bare thigh in a possessive grip, as if acting on its own accord, and I’m pleased that she’s no longer fidgeting uncomfortably at my touch.
At first, I’d only meant to distract her because her nervousness was far too obvious. But as soon as I felt how soft her skin was, the way my hand practically consumed her thigh, and how powerful I felt knowing I could wield her body any way that I wanted… There was no prying my hand away after that.
Of course, it also doesn’t help having the very fresh memory of her big eyes staring at me in awe, like I was a fucking god to be worshipped as she watched me fuck my hand. The way she licked her lips, unable to tear her eyes away, like she was dying for a chance to take me in that sweet mouth of hers…
I feel my cock begin to swell and tear my attention back to the conversation as I fight my hand from moving any higher up her thigh, from sneaking up that sexy as hell sundress she’s wearing.
“Can I top you off?” Roman waits for Scout’s nod before emptying the last bit of wine into her half-full glass.
The conversation must’ve shifted while I was zoned out because now everyone’s attention is back on us.
“So, Scout. How are your parents doing? I don’t think I’ve seen Samantha or Judge Sinclair in ages,” My dad asks, and thequestion must catch Scout by surprise because her hand shakes as she sets her wine down, not seeing the butter knife. The glass topples against her plate, making a loud clang before shattering, red wine spilling everywhere.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” Scout jumps out of her seat in a panic, fumbling with her napkin as she tries to wipe the stain. “I’m such an idiot.”
“Oh, honey, you are fine—" my mom starts, but Scout’s too busy panicking to hear her.
Roman doesn’t have to be told; he just gets up to grab a towel. Meanwhile, I cross a foot over my knee and sit back in my seat, watching as her attempt to panic clean only makes a bigger mess.
“Oh, now I’m just making it worse.” Her voice comes out tight, like she’s trying to hold back tears.
“Honey, please don’t worry about it. There’s nothing in this house that can’t be tossed in the washing machine or replaced.”
My dad jumps up to help. “Here, let me get these glass shards out of the way.”
“Mrs. Kingsley, I’m so sorry. I’m such a klutz. Let me pay to have this cleaned.”
“Oh, there’s no need for that, sweetie. Really. This really isn’t a big deal,” my mom assures her, before sending me a glare, as if urging me to step in and help.
My eyes laser in on Scout’s shaking hands, and for some reason, it sends a flare of heat searing through my chest. I don’t miss the looks from my brothers, as each of them seems to be wearing the same look of concern.
My jaw is tense as I try to hold back my rapidly growing annoyance at the way Scout’s so pathetically flustered. The next thing I know, I’m standing, grabbing her by the arm, and leading her to the kitchen. “Come with me.” My words are like gravel in my throat.
Scout’s eyes are welled with tears, her flushed cheeks now red from embarrassment as I lead her over to the sink, rinsing her hands to make sure they’re free of any shards of glass.
