“Yup.” I exaggerate the p, mimicking him. “The only one you’ll ever get from me. Now, put. Me. Down.”
He ignores me.
Of course he does.
He toes off his expensive Italian loafers and strides through the kitchen, past all the tempting snacks.
“What are you doing?” I demand, outraged and mourning the luscious-looking charcuterie and fruit tray we sailed past.
I’m usually incredibly careful with what I eat, but I’m drunk enough not to give a damn, and that cheese needs to be in my mouth, stat.
He still doesn’t answer me, so I get bold and start banging on his chest. The muscles flex under my hands. The man works out. A lot. A mental image of Scorpion, jacked and tatted, lifting weights in the gym, makes heat flood to my core all over again. So far, I’ve only seen his hands and forearms. Where else does he have tattoos?
“Stop squirming,” he orders me.
“I am fully capable of walking.” I bang on his perfectly honed chest some more.
His only response is to abruptly shift me so that I’m suddenly tossed over his shoulder instead of being held in his arms. It’s reminiscent of the day he brought me back to Misha, and the same feeling of outraged foreboding courses through me. I start pummeling his back, but it’s every bit as solid as his infuriating chest is.
Unmoved, he walks to a staircase and starts up the steps. Where is he taking me?
“Put me down!”
He swats my butt. “Behave.”
Hespankedme. The nerve.
It’s not the first time, but my reaction is different now, without the audience, without the dire consequences. I’m not his prisoner now. I’m his wife. My clit throbs. Part of me likes it. The wrong part of me.
No, Katya. Bad Katya. This is your enemy. Your kidnapper.
With that reminder ringing in my mind, I try to nail him in the groin, but he’s too quick.
“I’m beginning to think you want to be handcuffed to the bed again,” he growls.
“Not unless you want me to kill you in your sleep,” I say sweetly.
He spanks me again.
It stings, but then he rubs his palm over my ass, and the sting turns to something else. Something like an ache deep inside me.
Oh God.
I’m wet.
I have to suppress the urge to grind myself into his shoulder, to seek that palm. I want him to touch me there so badly, and I hate myself for that need, that weakness, but the self-loathing changes nothing. Something about Scorpion calls to me in a primitive way. My body wants his. Screw everything else, even my sense of self-preservation.
He reaches the top of the steps and starts down a hall. The hardwood is polished and gleaming, but the truth is that I barely notice it because I’m staring at his ass and how well-formed it is. The man’s suit fits him like a glove. I pinch a cheek, and he smacks my butt, harder this time.
“Ouch!” I protest. “That hurts.”
“So did that pinch. I know my ass is irresistible, but try to keep your hands to yourself,cara mia.”
He’s laughing at me.
Enjoying this.
I land a kick in his stomach, but it’s like trying to punt concrete. The man’s a wall of solid muscle. He grunts and absorbs the blow, banding an arm around my legs to keep me from doing it again.
