Page 159 of Unleashed
Four minutes. My thighs are trembling. Not from the position. From the waiting. From the not knowing.
Five minutes. Footsteps on the stairs. He's counting them. He knows exactly how many steps it takes. He knows I'm counting them too.
The bedroom door opens.
I keep my eyes on the floor. Hands on my thighs. Back straight. The way he likes me. The way I learned a long time ago makes him lose his mind.
My pulse is in my throat.
He walks behind me. I feel the heat of him at my back, close but not touching. I forget how to breathe when his breath is on the top of my head.
He circles. Like he's inspecting something he owns. I keep my gaze down, but I can see his feet moving past me and then stopping in front of me.
"Look at me," he orders.
I lift my eyes.
He's standing over me. Sweatpants. Backward hat. Arms at his sides. Looking down at me with an expression that makes every nerve ending in my body fire at once.
“Now I’d like to do a little show and tell for you,” he says.
And then he drops his sweatpants to the floor, kicking them to one side. He flicks on the warm side light, his hand on his hard cock.
I frown. He's holding something between his thumb and forefinger, but the light is behind him, and I can't quite see it.
He steps closer, and my breath catches in my throat.
Hudson's engagement ring. The diamond glinting.
But it's not on his finger. It's not in his palm.
It's threaded onto a small surgical steel ring that connects with a ball. The other three piercings are still the curved barbells.
My engagement ring is on one of his piercings on his dick.
My brain stalls. I look up at him. Back at the ring. Back at him. My jaw almost on the damn floor.
"Ace." My voice comes out strangled. "What did you do?"
"What does it look like I did, darlin’?"
"It looks like you put a twenty-thousand-dollar engagement ring on your dick."
"Correct."
"That ring doesn’t belong to me."
He laughs. "Nope. You’re right about that."
I cannot stop staring.
He crouches down in front of me, with that devastating, infuriating, I-dare-you-to-be-mad-about-it smirk that I fell in love with when I was fifteen years old.
"Here's how I see it, pretty girl. You walked into my house wearing another man's ring. On my finger." He taps my left hand where it rests on my thigh. "So now it lives on me. Somewhere more appropriate. And every time I fuck you, you're going to feel it. And you're going to remember exactly who you belong to."
The sound that comes out of me is not a word. It's not a moan. It's something from a part of my brain that has completely abandoned logic and is running on pure, feral instinct.
"And when Hudson asks where his ring went?" I manage.
