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Her face falls. She accuses, "Are you ever going to trust me?"
"Me, trust you?" I laugh.
Her eyes turn to slits. "Yeah. You don't trust me at all, Riggs."
"And we're back to this," I mumble and down another mouthful of scotch.
She studies me, then steps back and says, "If you want to be my husband, then be it."
"And how do you want me to do that?" I question, feeling more defeated than ever before.
She arches her eyebrows, looking more beautiful than ever. Then she steps back. She slowly strips, removing her jacket and dropping it to the floor.
I watch her like a hawk, not able to tear my eyes off her, feeling the throb in my cock grow. Her short little skirt falls to the floor, and I reprimand her. "You shouldn't be going to a party in that, especially without me."
She softly laughs. "Why? What would you have done if you were with me and I wore it?"
I groan inside. Everything I say is just playing right into her game.
What the fuck is happening here?
She slowly removes her glittery mock-neck top. The thickest of her gold collars shines against the darkness of the room.
I inhale sharply, asking, "When did you put that on?"
She smirks. "Oh, I have my secrets, darling."
Blood pounds faster and hotter in my veins. It's my favorite collar. She knows it's my favorite. I can restrain her to anything in that collar.
She stands, and my eyes drift down her body, taking in her gold bra, which shows the hint of her nipples. Her delicate thong is a bit darker, and the craziness inside me grows.
She's already wet.
That's my good little pet.
Her lips twitch. She slides her fingers over her pussy and taunts, "Should I call you Daddy tonight?" She giggles.
My chest tightens and I warn, "Don't fuck with me, pet."
She smirks. "Why? What are you going to do about it?"
I state, "I'm not into your games, Blakely."
She leans over my chair. Her scent drifts in my nostrils again, and I'm on the border of exploding from the insanity I can't seem to escape. She puts her hands on the armrests and her face right in front of mine.
I grip the chair's seat.
She states, "Oops. I broke rule two. Sorry, Sir." She bats her lashes.
I refrain from touching the one thing I want to feel more than anything—the one thing I need but am scared I'll never have again.
She pouts. "So you don't want to play? You've lost interest in me?"
Regain control.
I take calculated breaths, trying to calm the adrenaline that's building within me, but I can't, and she only makes it worse.
She takes her fingertip and traces the bone around my eyebrow, down my cheek, and over my lips, taunting, "Oops, I seem to have broken rule seven too."
