Page 93 of King of Ashes
“Terrified.”
“Good.”
The corner of his mouth arches in a lopsided grin, making him appear even more attractive. Damn, I stand no chance.
“Enjoying my torment, I see. But don’t forget where we’re heading, wife. Once we’re there, I’ll deal with your brattiness.”
“I’m not a brat,” I say haughtily, but with no conviction.
Eyeing me earnestly, he rolls his lower lip between his teeth. “You’re a brat. A spoiled one too.”
The accusation is so absurd that I throw my head back, laughter bubbling out of me.
“I can’t believe you think I am a brat,” I say, dabbing at the corners of my eyes.
He lifts his hand, ticking one finger. “Exhibit A.”
I laugh some more, but his features remain stoic. “You leave my bed whenever you damn well please.”
I place my hand on my chest in faux outrage. “Unreasonable of me.”
“Definitely. You sass me back every goddamn chance you get.”
“Well, husband,” I say, my tone dripping with seduction, “I have the slight impression you are seldom told no. I’m just keeping that enormous ego in check.”
“My point exactly,” he groans.
“So that makes me a brat?”
“You. Are. One.”
I wet my lips, arousal pooling low in my belly. “And what happens to brats?”
“They get punished.” His eyes darken, causing me to shift in my seat.
The air turns combustible while we play with matches, careless of the burn.
“You’re just searching for a reason to spank my ass.” I lean over to whisper, “But I like it, husband, so you can stop talking nonsense.”
A guttural sound vibrates in his throat. “Nonsense, you say?”
“Mm-hmm, so what are you going to do about that?” My voice drips with challenge, loving how good he makes me burn.
With every second, the tension sizzles, our breathing labored as the foreplay continues its seductive course.
His eyes spark at the prospect. “Provoking me. Oh baby, you want to be fucked, badly.”
A tremor passes through me, and he notices my reaction, but he remains seated, stoking my sexual frustration.
“I know you’re hard. So why don’t you take me already?” I whine, done with the game, and craving gratification.
“I want you dripping wet for me. Out of your mind with desire before I take you.” He sounds in control, but it’s a show. His shirt stretches across his chest, the buttons threatening to pop any second now, his muscles pulled taut. He’s on edge. I am threatening his control by simply being in his presence.
“You just love it when I beg,” I drawl out the last part, and his blue eyes liquefy, drowning me in an ocean of desire.
“And beg you will,” he says, lifting his glass in a toast.
“If I’m a brat, you are cruel,” I mutter, riled up while he seems the picture of composure. So unfair.
