Page 116 of Bound

A dock with a yacht, I have been informed, is not technically ours because it belongs to the family, which in Bachman language means it is ours whenever we want it while we are on our honeymoon.

The entire mansion we’re staying in is empty except for staff housed far enough away in the guest cottage that Lucian personally checked twice before we went to bed last night.

I walk back toward the bed. His eyes follow me.

Dark. Possessive. Not tired anymore.

Definitely not pretending to sleep. “Come here.”

“Ask nicely, Mr. Bachman.”

His nostrils flare.

I enjoy this too much.

“Please come here.” His voice lowers to a growl. “Now.”

I stop beside the bed. “See? Growth.”

His hand closes around my wrist, and he pulls me down.

I land half on top of him, laughing. He rolls me beneath him.

The robe falls open.

His expression changes.

There are moments when Lucian looks at me like he has never seen a woman before.

I live for those moments.

His fingers trace the gold sword at my throat.

“Mrs. Bachman.”

My stomach flips.

“My wife.”

“Say it again.”

“My wife.”

Heat curls through me. I wrap my legs around his waist. “My husband.”

He kisses me. Not carefully.

We have had careful.

We have had frantic.

Angry.

Desperate.

Shameful.

Healing.