Page 122 of Be My Wife

“Black.”

He turns. Grabs a shirt. Pulls it over his head. “Want anything special for breakfast?”

Yes, but it’s not on the menu.

“Elizabeth?”

I shake my head and hold my hand out.

He stares at it, confused.

I arch both eyebrows and flutter my hand. He hesitantly reaches out and drops his palm into mine. I take his hand, turn it around and press a kiss to the scars. His shocked expression makes me smile against his skin.

“You’re very touchy-feely in your sleep. Did you know that?” I turn his hand around. Lower my head. Drop a kiss into his palm.

His shock melts into a smirk. “I didn’t.”

“Well, heads-up. You are.”

“And?”

Hauling him by the front of his shirt, I pull him to the bed, rejecting the voice in the back of my mind reminding me that I’m going to get myself hurt if I keep this up.

“And,” I whisper, “since it was your body, I’m going to hold you responsible, even if you were unconscious.”

“Is that so?”

“You, sir, need to finish what you started.”

Brogan chuckles and yanks his shirt off as he climbs back into bed.

It’s weird not having to drive to work.

And using my own private elevator.

And sleeping in the penthouse suite.

Not that I own any of those things.

Brogan does.

Brogan has control of this building.

This elevator.

The guards.

Everything.

He even has control of my body, if his simple thumb caress over my hip through my clothes and the speeding of my pulse is any indication.

But Brogan Harrington does not have control of my heart.

I still own that.

Barely.

“Are you working in the office this morning?” I ask, from where he has me trapped in the corner of the elevator.

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