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Most other men would ask if I’m cold and offer me their jacket.
Not Etienne. He knows I’m not cold. That arrogant husband of mine knows exactly why my nipples have suddenly become visible through my dress. And I don’t shrink away or try to hide it, even when his decadent mouth kisses my throat, his breath wafting over my neck.
“I can’t wait to get you home and take care of that ache.”
The car pulls up and comes to a stop on the gravel driveway. I feel such relief that no one is following us. No one is watching. I don’t have to train my face for the media.
It’s just my husband and me, leaving a party. No one is gawking or following us.
We’ll be alone in such a short time, but even the fifteen-minute drive to the cottage is too much for me. It feels like forever.
As we pull away, Etienne rakes his gaze all over my body. When he looks away, deep in thought, he rubs the side of his thumb along his pink bottom lip. His ears are red. And it’s getting warm in the back of this car.
I depress the button that raises the blackout glass between the driver and the back seat. Surprised, Etienne looks over at me.
Thank the gods; this man doesn’t fuck around by asking me what in the hell I think I’m doing. He is utterly unfazed by me making my move.
He doesn’t mistake it for anything other than what it is: the clear and concise message that I want to do things with him in the back of this car that require privacy.
He wastes no time.
Etienne pivots toward me, leaning in to kiss me. I lick my lips, my spine quivering in anticipation.
But just as he’s about to touch his lips to mine, he hooks one index finger into the cowl neckline of my dress and tugs it down, exposing one breast.
A low groan escapes him at the sight. He runs five fingers lightly down the length of my breastbone, sending goosebumps everywhere.
And then he’s cupping my bare breast, testing the weight of it, studying it, caressing the tip with his rough fingers.
My inner walls clench at nothing, and I bite my bottom lip.
“Etienne,” I whisper.
He looks up. “Wife.”
How many times has that word meant nothing to him but royal duty? Tonight, there is nothing but reverent dominance in the word. I want more of that. I want all of him, all over me.
The heated look in his eyes turns to something else. Something wilder. Feral. I reach out to touch his face, wanting so badly for him to kiss me.
But he won’t be kissed.
Instead, Etienne lowers his head and suctions his lips over my nipple, sucking the aching bud into his mouth. He worships it with his tongue flooding my panties with the work of his wicked mouth.
I bite back a moan, unsure if the blacked-out window suppresses the sound.
He can hear it, though. Etienne notices my squirming, my back arching forward to feed his mouth, his deft fingers, and my trembling breath.
My husband rumbles as he switches to the other side, tugging the material, his mouth lavishing that nipple with attention and his masculine fingers coaxing the other.
I had fully intended to fool around when I raised the blacked-out window, but things are getting out of control now. And I’m not sure I want to press pause.
Is it possible to come from breast worship alone? I might just…
“Etienne…”
“What do you need, baby?”
I’m his baby. Let that sink in. Oh my…
