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“Answer when your husband speaks to you,” Luca admonishes her, dark amusement written across his face.
Kinky fucker.
I know he adores my wife almost as much as I do, but any man loves seeing a beautiful woman give pleasure. There’s something animalistic about the act, and Willow doesn’t—will never—disappoint.
“I’m sorry,” she gasps around the head of my cock. “I … Rafe…” Dark hues suffuse her face.
I laugh, realizing how close she is to coming. “Yes, we had fun that day too. Come before I do, and you can show Chef your marks.”
She moans at that, and I wonder if the scenario will set her off. Her tongue drags across my balls and I groan with her.
Her body starts to shake, but I can’t hold back, too aroused still from our earlier play session where she teased me to the nth degree of my control. My hips jerking, I come down her throat to the stunning hums of her own orgasm.
Luca stands behind her, his arms folded, a dark glitter in his eyes as he watches her. “Thank him.”
“Thank you, Husband,” she said formally. Willow rocks back on her heels, her hands cupped demurely in her lap and looks up at me, her expression guileless and without games, if only for once.
“You’re so beautiful.” I trace her lips with the pad of my thumb, tucking a tiny white pearl drop on the corner of her lips inside her mouth, sighing as she sucks on my thumb and tidies my pants. “Thank Chef for his intervention of your … behavior.”
Bad doesn’t come close to covering it, but damn if she’s not perfect.
“Thank you, Luca,” she whispers, looking up at him through her lashes.
The enormous man allows her a fraction of a smile before he turns on his heel and leaves us.
Willow shuffles around, straightening her clothes and pressing her legs together. I shake my head.
“Knees apart, wife,” I murmur, cutting into my haloumi.
“Yes, Rafe.” Her eyes cast down, pink spots on her cheeks. “Thank you,” she whispers.
“That might have been my favorite part of the night so far,” I muse. “Did you like it?”
She nods, glancing up at me with a broad smile. “Fuck, yes.”
I laugh, a streak of pure joy that lasts a full breath before Seamus Cunningham walks onto the rooftop terrace of my home, a blood-covered Dom puffing in his wake.
“Fuck me.” I glare at Cunningham, reaching out for Willow’s hand.
She sets a trembling one in mine. I frown, looking down at her shaking fingers, but Cunningham beats me to it.
“Do you want to tell him, or shall I?”
The smug bastard twirls one of my own fucking roses under his nose and sniffs it.
Chapter Eighteen
Mirror Image
Willow
My heart drops to the floor the moment I lay eyes on Seamus. Can’t I just have a goddamned minute before the next fucking catastrophe hits? This is the last damn thing I needed.
“Seamus,” I start, but Rafe cuts me off.
“There is nothing you could say that I want to hear. And if my wife,” he emphasizes the word with a glare in the other man’s direction. “If she has something she wants to share with me, it will be when she chooses to do so.”
A dark chuckle leaves Seamus. “It’s interesting to see how much faith you suddenly have in your flighty wife. A woman you know nothing about.”
