He snorts. “Christ, no. I doubt the wee lass even knows how to feed herself. Seems like she’d require round-the-clock care, like a puppy.”
I’m about to argue with him, but recall the times she nearly burned the house down attempting to cook, and think better of it.
“You, on the other hand.” He chuckles again, now cupping both my breasts in his hands and pulling gently on my nipples. “Can take care of yourself.”
“But…you don’t want to live with me?”
He pauses his caressing to say in a husky voice, “Aye. I do. But more than that, I don’t want you to be miserable.”
I’m overwhelmed by the generosity of that offer. Stunned and overwhelmed, and not altogether believing, because how on earth would something like that even work?
“Quinn…I…I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to know. Just think about it.”
Massaging my breasts, he hums with pleasure. Powered by an internal nuclear reactor that never goes offline, his erection digs into my lower back.
He says, “Oh, but don’t think you’d be off on the other side of the city or anything. I’d buy you a house right next door to mine.”
That makes me smile. “Naturally.”
“I’d probably have connecting doors put in to join the bedrooms, too.”
“I can’t imagine.”
Sliding his hands down my rib cage, he squeezes my hips, then slips his hands between my legs. Kneading the tender flesh on my inner thighs, he murmurs, “You can’t blame me, lass. You’re a goddamn wet dream. You’re perfection. Every time I look at you, I think I could go blind.”
My heart expanding painfully, I say, “I’m quite average-looking, actually. You just have a thing for mouthy swamp witches.”
He breathes, “God, how I do,” and sinks a finger inside me.
I turn my head. He takes my mouth, kissing me deeply as he works his finger in and out and plays with my breasts, going back and forth between them.
“You’re trembling again.”
“And you’re talking again. What a surprise.”
Our faces are only an inch apart. He stares down at me, his hazel eyes soft and warm. A lock of hair falls across his forehead. I reach up and brush it away, my lids drifting lower as he lazily strokes his fingers over my clit.
He says, “Tell me about these romance novels of yours.”
“Why?”
“I’m interested to know what you like about them.”
I think for a moment as he gently pinches a nipple and my clit at the same time. The feeling is incredible. Which he knows, because he’s intently watching my face from one inch away.
In a breathy voice, I say, “I guess I like that they’re written for women. The whole world is made to please the male gaze, but romance novels only care about what we want. What we need. They’re specifically for our pleasure. Some of the stories are great escapist fantasies.”
He looks intrigued. “Maybe we should reenact one of these fantasies. What’s your favorite type of storyline?”
“Oh, that’s easy. Reverse harem.”
His brows draw together. “What the bloody hell is reverse harem?”
“Where one female has multiple male sexual partners.”
He freezes. His nostrils flare. His lips thin, and a dangerous glint appears in his eyes.
He growls, “Two things you should know about me. One: What’s mine is mine. Two: I don’t share. Three: See numbers one and two, woman.”
I laugh. “God, you’re easy to provoke. I was only teasing you.”
His outraged stare indicates he doesn’t find my teasing at all amusing.
“Okay, Mr. Jealous and Possessive, you can stop glaring at me now.” I press a gentle kiss to his thinned lips and say more softly, “I have no desire to have multiple men at a time. In real life, they’d all be more concerned about comparing the size of their dicks than pleasing me. And I’m happy that you don’t want to share, but I could do without the over-the-top alpha-male possessiveness.”
A rumble of displeasure goes through his chest, but he doesn’t say anything.
Smiling, I whisper, “And you claim to not be a caveman.”
He snaps, “I said I wasn’t that much of a caveman, not that I wasn’t one at all.”
My smile grows wider. I lounge against him, ridiculously satisfied by everything about this conversation.
“Don’t gloat,” he warns, nipping at my lower lip.
“It’s just that I’ve never had such a beautiful man act so crazy over me before.”
When he lifts his brows and drawls, “Oh, really?” I know I’ve made a huge mistake.
I close my eyes and heave a sigh. “Go ahead. Get it over with.”
“It’s just that I could’ve sworn I heard you call me…what was it again?”
I mutter, “Impossible.”
“No, that wasn’t it. Hmm.” He pretends to think. “It could’ve been beautiful. But perhaps I’m mistaken? Maybe I need you to say it again.”
“Or maybe you need to go find a speeding car to jump in front of.”
He slides his hand up my chest and encircles my throat with gentle pressure from his fingers. I open my eyes to find him gazing at me with such burning intensity, it makes me catch my breath.
His voice low and his eyes hypnotic, he commands, “Say it, viper. Tell me what you think of me.”
The way he’s wrapped around my body—legs, arms, and that big rough hand around my neck—should make me feel panicked. Or cornered, at least. Like a hunted fox, staring down its bloody end.
But all I feel is sheltered.
Secure.
As if his body is a shield instead of a weapon that could do me harm. For the first time in my life, a man feels not like war to me, but like home.
I gaze up into his eyes as an ancient calcified rock melts to warmed butter in the center of my chest.
Then I admit something truly horrifying.
“I think you’re a brilliant golden sun in a sky that’s only ever known the black and starless night.”
Through parted lips, he exhales a slow, astonished breath. His burning eyes could light the whole city on fire. When he touches my mouth, his fingers tremble.
I’m rescued from the feeling that I’m about to leap off a terrifyingly high cliff ledge and plunge headlong into a bottomless abyss when room service knocks on the door.
26
Rey
We eat in silence.
More accurately, he feeds me forkfuls of food as if I’m an invalid, and I chew while neither of us speaks.
I don’t know how he’s feeling about all this, but I, for one, am terrified about what might erupt from my mouth next.
I’m in danger of composing more hasty and humiliating odes to his godlike beauty, so for the moment, I’m pretending to be a mime.
The filet is delicious. The asparagus is perfectly cooked. The mashed potatoes are pillowy, buttery perfection. All of it slips past my lips in small forkfuls that my new husband provides with the intense concentration of an explosives specialist defusing a ticking bomb.
In between bites, he lifts a glass of wine to my lips so I can sip from it.
It’s a testament to my new state of permanent mental disability that I don’t find any of that odd.