“Such a good wife,” I say, looking her in the eyes.
She wets her lips and, for a second, that bravado she so expertly wears drops and I see a side of vulnerability.
But in an instant, that vulnerability washes away and the bravado reappears. “I’m so glad I can please you.”
I tighten my grip around her waist. “You know, there’s more ways you could please me.”
Her neck reddens and she looks away from me. Fucking adorable. She puts on such a front, but just a hint of interest from me and she’s blushing. Gathering herself, she says, “I’m sure there are other ways I can please you, but you see, Pike, this wife doesn’t put out.”
“Shame.” I wet my lips. “Because this husband really wants to bury his head between his wife’s legs.”
And that’s fucking true.
I’ve glanced through the pictures from our wedding night, taking in the fun we had, that fucking dress she wore, and it makes me realize one, glaring truth. I would happily fuck this woman.
Bloody hell, I want to fuck her.
Despite the clothes she’s trying to dissuade me with.
Her eyes widen and she shifts on my lap, but I hold her in place. Looking unsure of what to do, she shouts, “Your lunch. You should, uh, eat your lunch.”
“I’d rather eat you. On this desk.”
That’s all it takes. She bolts off my lap and takes a few steps back, making sure to put enough distance between us so I can’t reach her. Her chest heaves as she clasps her hands in front of her. “You shouldn’t talk to me like that.”
“Why not?” I ask. “You’re my wife.”
“It’s inappropriate.”
“It actually isn’t.” I draw a circle on the desk with my finger and watch as her eyes follow the circles, over and over again. “What’s the problem with me admitting to wanting to eat your pussy? Turning you on?”
“No,” she rapidly says.
“Uh-huh, then why is your neck red?”
Her hand goes to her neck. “Sunburn.”
“Funny how you’re indoors and that sunburn just magically appeared.”
Her eyes narrow, and with her finger, she flicks the brown bag and asks, “Are you going to eat this or not?”
“Do you want me to eat it?”
“That’s why I brought it here.”
“Okay.” Keeping my eyes on her, I say a silent prayer to the Lord Savior Himself and hope there isn’t any sort of crushed-up ex-lax in whatever she’s prepared for me. But when I pull out a sandwich, I’m surprised. “What’s this?” I ask.
She smiles. “Peanut butter and jelly. It’s an American delicacy.”
“Oh.” The mere idea of mixing peanut butter with jam is repulsive, but if I know Cora like I think I do, she’s probably done some Google searching and has come up with some ideas to try to get me to crack. Little does she know, after that chicken last night, I have a stomach of steel—and apparently non-existing tastebuds.
I take it out of the container and bring it to my mouth. The peanut butter smell hits me first, followed by something very berry. Without skipping a beat, though, I take a large bite and hide my look of absolute displeasure as I chew.
How?
How is this something Americans like?
It’s gooey. There’s no texture. And it’s just . . . gauche.
But Cora watches me intently, and with her watchful eyes on me, I take another large mouthful.
“You—you like it?”
“Am I not supposed to?”
“You’re supposed to—I mean, it’s . . . well, I thought . . . have you ever had one before?”
“No,” I answer. I look inside the bag and see an accompanying apple. I take that out of the bag as well and take a large bite out of it. “Trying to be teacher’s pet?” I gesture to the apple.
Her eyes narrow. “You’re annoying.”
“Am I not being arsehole enough for you? I can try harder if you’d like.”
“I would like for you to climb up your own asshole and suffocate.”
I clutch my chest. “Words brimming with love.”
Hands on her hips, she studies me. “I would like nothing more than to punch you right in the eye socket.”
“Have at it, wife.” I lean forward for her, giving her up-close access to my face.
Growling out her frustration, she turns on her heel and stomps out of my classroom. When the door slams shut, I know maybe I didn’t play that interaction all too well. Killian would not be impressed.