Page 112 of Nutmeg + Mistletoe
“And you’re underdressed.”
My eyes narrow into razor slits as I slam the fridge shut. “What are you talking about?”
He lets out a tortured breath, stepping further into the kitchen. Still shirtless. Still with tomato residue on his chest. “Where the hell do you think you’re going dressed like that, wife?”
I fold my arms. “It’s Halloween. It’s a costume.”
He glares. “Marlow.”
“What?”
“That’s not a costume, it’s an invitation.”
I take a step forward. “And what exactly am I inviting, husband?”
He steps forward, too. “If you’re leaving the house dressed like that, the only thing you’re inviting is trouble.”
He takes me in some more. “You’d think you were inviting your husband to turn a house into a home inside your tight, wet—”
I cut him off with a sarcastic laugh. “Oh, get over yourself. You think I get dressed formen?”
“I think you get dressed to be seen.”
“By you?”
“By the looks of it right now,everyone.”
I breathe out a humorless laugh. “So now you’re the morality police?”
“No. I’m the man who married you, remember?” His voice sharpens. “The one whoknowshow it feels to have you pressed up against him and doesn’t want to share even a goddamnglimpseof that with anyone else. You can call it fake all you want but I can assure you, my bullets are not.”
We’re close now. Inches. Our breath tangled and hot between us.
“You don’t get to play the possessive husband, Declan.”
“Why? Because you’re still pretending this doesn’t mean anything?”
“Because it doesn’t. Itcan’tmean anything. And because I’m not your fucking property!”
He grins. And it’s not playful. It’s sharp. Unyielding. “What’s mine is yours, right?”
“What?”
“You’re not my property,” he confirms, stepping in, “but if we’re married, half of this sorry excuse for a costume is. No need to wait for the divorce. I’ll take my half now.”
His hand moves quick, intentionally, and catches the edge of my neckline. His eyes lock on mine.
“Don’t you dare—”
He licks his lip.
I don’t even know when he grabbed it, but suddenly there’s a knife in his hand, slicing clean through the neckline of my black bodysuit. The leather gives with a soft tear, splitting right at the collar.
Riiip.
My breath halts. The front falls open, peeling away to expose the exact strip of skin that’s been testing his restraint since he laid eyes on me.“Declan!” I gasp.
He leans in. “Find a new costume or you’re not going anywhere.”
