Page 127 of Spearcrest Prince

“I’m allowed to be nice.”

She pulls away and gives me a slow, wicked smirk. “But you suit being mean so much better.”

I narrow my eyes and tilt my head. “Why are you trying to provoke me, trésor?”

She shrugs. “I would never think of doing such a thing.”

But the green satin of her jumpsuit flows like water on her skin, making obvious the rise and fall of her quickening breath, the tightening of her nipples. I clench my jaw and lower my voice.

“Careful, trésor. You don’t want to get chased through the woods again.”

Her eyes glitter. “As if you could catch me.”

Wrapping my hand around the back of her neck, I pull her face to mine. “Who’s the sadomasochist now?”

“Still you,” she breathes against my mouth.

“No. I don’t want to hurt you,mon trésor. I want to do many, many things to you but never hurt you.”

I capture her mouth in a kiss that steals both our breaths away. She moulds her body into mine, her arms snaking around my shoulders. A tiny moan slips from her lips, and she suddenly pulls away.

“Then give me my ring back.”

“What?” I frown down at her.

“My ring. I want it back.”

My heart seizes in my chest.

“It’s an engagement ring,” I say slowly.

She shrugs. “I know.”

“I want you to have it,” I tell her, voice low. Dusk is falling around us, the creeping darkness wrapping us in a soft cocoon. “But it’s anengagementring.”

“We’re engaged, aren’t we?”

I hesitate. “Does that mean we’restayingengaged?”

“Do you want to stay engaged?” she asks.

“Anaïs. Of course, I want to stay engaged. I want you to be my lover, my girlfriend, my fiancée. One day, I want you to be my wife—if you want. I just want you to be mine, however you want to be mine.”

Emotion softens her eyes. She reaches up and kisses me, a delicate touch. “I want to be yours, Séverin Montcroix, however you want me to be yours. So give me the ring.”

I unclasp the necklace from around my neck and place it around hers. The ring falls on her throat, and I touch my fingertips to it. It’s still warm from my skin. But it’s nothing compared to the warmth filling my heart, my chest.

“I fucking love you, Anaïs Nishihara,” I whisper.

She laughs. “I know.”

“Do you love me too?”

She places her mouth to my ear. Her hair tickles my lips as she does. I breathe in the heady smell of her, lilacs and French summers and linseed oil and desire.

“Je t’aime. Je t’aime de toute ma vie, de tout mon corps, de toute mon âme.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “Are you making fun of me?”

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