Page 80 of Gilded Shackles
The footsteps grow heavier.
Measured, powerful, unmistakable.
The door to our bedroom swings open, and there he is—tie loosened, coat slung over one shoulder, a few strands of dark hair falling across his brow like they got tired of behaving. His shirt’s open at the throat, his sleeves rolled just enough to show forearms that should honestly come with a warning label.
My mouth goes dry.
He fills the doorway like he owns it, like he ownsme, and suddenly all my big, confident “I’m going to tell him tonight” energy packs up and leaves the building.
Just for a temporary hiatus.
“Elle,” he says, his voice low, surprised. “What’s this?”
I smile, pretending to be calm even though my pulse is auditioning for a rock concert. “Surprise.”
For a heartbeat, he just stares, taking it all in.
The candles.
The champagne.
Me.
“You did all this?”
“Unless the maids decided to get sentimental,” I say. “Yes, I did.”
He steps closer, slow and deliberate, eyes dark in the candlelight. “And what exactly are we celebrating?”
Well, can’t exactly spring a baby on him like this, can I? “Us,” I say, because it’s also true. “You. Me. The fact that we’re happy together.”
He smiles, looking at me with a softness, right before his gaze turns hungrier. His eyes take me in, drink me from head to toe, stopping everywhere the dress cinches tight.
He kicks the door shut behind him, his eyes locked on mine and the move, sexy and dominant in every way possible, already has me thinking depraved thoughts.
"Is everything okay?" he asks, prowling toward me like I'm prey he's been tracking all day.
I nod, throat suddenly dry. "Everything's fine. Great, actually. I just wanted to?—"
He's in front of me now, so close I can smell him, my pulse jumping like it's been electrocuted.
"To what?" he murmurs, one hand sliding around the back of my neck, thumb brushing the sweet spot just below my ear.
My brain short-circuits. Words? What are those? "To... um..."
Before I can remember how sentences work, he spins me around and backs me up until my shoulders meet the wall beside our bed.
His palms land on either side of my head, the space between us charged and narrow. Then, his mouth is at my throat, breath hot against my skin.
"You look fucking edible," he growls against my neck. "Are you okay to eat after I devour you?"
And that’s it. Rational thought packs its bags and flees the scene. This was not how I planned the evening going, but my body's sending out flares like it's voting unanimously for Option B: Sex Now, Talk Later.
"Um," I manage, eloquent as ever when his teeth graze my pulse point. "Yes?"
“You don’t sound convinced,” he chuckles in a low growl, getting my teeth on edge from want. His hands trail up the outside of my thighs, my hips, setting my core on god damn fire.
I grab his lapels, yanking him closer. "Yes," I repeat, firmer this time. "Hell yes."
