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Drool over him like he’s my real husband instead of my fake one.
“I do not like that you think it’s okay to go to happy hour.”
Taken back a bit by the comment, I jab, “You don’t think it’s okay for me to spend time with my friends and co-workers?”
“I don’t think you should be going someplace where women dangle themselves like cheap bait for the sharks that circle those establishments.”
His words and tone tighten my frame.
“You want time with your friends? Bring them to our home. Drink on the patio. Party in the parlor. Enjoy the pool or the hot tub or the private section of the beach. Do not needlessly endanger an innocent man’s life for coming onto my wife because he mistook her presence among her single friends as an invitation to insert himself into a position not intended for him.”
The possession in his speech is too intoxicating to resist.
No one has ever been so protective of me.
No one has even tried.
“Am I making myself clear, Elle?”
I’m barely able to muster up more than a nod.
“Good.” His curt nod is followed by him shoving his hands into his pocket. “Now, ask me why I’m displeased.”
“There’s more?!”
“Yes.”
I adjust the lapel to my black dress in nervousness and look around the area we’re occupying in search of the answer. My first guess is at the nearby canvas photos I knew were a huge risk. “Too avant-garde?”
His eyes don’t deter from mine. “No.”
“I should’ve asked before removing the chandelier in the dining room?” I point that direction prior to wincing at my audacity. “It was just that it was too industrial contemporary. It was a better design for an artsy loft or a studio apartment not somewhere with such a soft pallet. There are a few more major changes like that in my design that I’m doing to make sure that they tie together better with what I think will help this place sell, but if you want me to get your approval first, which now that I say it out loud I probably should’ve for that chandelier, that’s absolutely fine! I respect that. I can correct that mistake. I’ll show you the designs in my sketchbook or if you want the 3-D model, I can pull it up on my tablet during dinner to show you. I swear, what I have in mind will get this place sold like that.” The snap of my fingers doesn’t seem to ignite any sort of response. “I swear you’ll be singing my praises when I’m done and bragging to the whole world how amazing your wife is.”
He looks unimpressed.
Shit, did any of that make sense?
Was I just rambling?
Why does he make me nervously ramble like that?!
In just three short steps, he’s dominating the space between us. Invading the territory like it’s his. Like it’s always been his, and I’m just renting the air I’m currently breathing.
The nervous tension in my gut twists and rolls like a tumbleweed prompting me to quietly plead, “Please, don’t kill me.”
“I love hearing you beg, twinkle toes.” Delectable promise weaves into a husky voice.
Panic should pierce my system, yet my pussy swells in excitement instead.
Dampens my panties.
Aches for action that requires me to do the very thing he just purred.
“However,” his pause is accompanied by a glare of disapproval, “I hate hearing you beg for your life.” A firm hand claims the nape of my neck, applying sensual rather than savage pressure. “You will not do that again.”
Between the passion in his grip and the imploring in his gaze, it’s clear his feelings are hurt that I would even think it. I thoughtlessly reach out and give a gentle tug to the bottom of his peacoat. “I won’t.”
In the same commanding tone, Nero orders, “All doors are to be locked, especially when you’re working late alone.”
