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I’d offer up a saucy retort about how he could put me on my knees instead, but my mouth has abandoned ship in favor of letting my whole body bask in the warmth and comfort of his hands.
Arsen missed his calling—he should’ve been a masseuse. He’s been touching me for barely a minute, if that, and already, the pain in my hip is receding. My feet have stopped throbbing. Even the pounding in my temples has dulled.
Which is probably why, when he strokes his thumb along the crease of my hip, I lose all sense of where I am andmoan.
It’s not subtle, either. I really go for it. The sound is soul-deep and heartfelt. And “volume control” is not one of its virtues.
The moment it escapes my lips, my eyes fly open. I know there are still people talking and laughing and music is still playing, but the room might as well be dead silent.
I can’t bring myself to look around and see who is watching, but I know they are.
“Oh my God.” I dip my chin and hope my hair will hide my shame. “Please tell me someone else made that sound.”
“‘Someone else made that sound.’”
“Liar! That’s even worse! Oh, God.” I drop my face into my hands. “Get your hand out of my dress. I cannot be the woman who nearly orgasmed in public!”
“Was that what that moan was?” He’s only joking—he knows what I sound like when I really orgasm. “I guess I don’t know my own power.”
“That’s not what— I’m saying it’s what peoplethinkhappened.”
“And there will be no dissuading them now. You’re going to be the talk of the party,” Arsen teases even as his fingers slip between my thighs.
“What are you doing?” I squeeze my legs together, trying to keep him out even though every fiber in my being is dying to let him continue. “People are staring.”
Arsen is close enough that I can’t look away to confirm my theory. I can only hold his gaze. “Let them fucking stare.”
“Arsen—”
“You’re my wife,” he growls. “It’s my duty to take care of you. If I want to stick my hand up your dress, I will. If I want to make you come right here in the middle of the ballroom, I can do that, too. And I just might.”
“You wouldn’t,” I breathe, half-defiant, half-disbelieving.
“Watch me.”
29
ARSEN
Laila lets out a whimper of pain as I lift her from the car and into the house. I decide I’m going to sue the stilettos off of whoever the fuck designed those damned shoes. “We’re almost there.”
“I’m not gonna make it. Just dump me on the floor. I’ll wait for it to pass.”
“I’m not?—”
“Please, Arsen. I don’t want to move anymore.”
The discomfort in her voice is almost too much for me to handle. I ditch the idea of making it up the stairs and pivot towards the living room. “I’m at least putting you on the couch.”
She winces as I lower her down, and again when I have to move her leg to prop it up on a cushion.
But finally, she sighs. “That’s better.”
“Can I get you anything?”
She shakes her head. “It’s just a waiting game now. You go upstairs. I’ll sleep on the couch tonight.”
I turn away from her without another word. When I come back a few minutes later with a large bowl filled with hot water and a sponge, her eyes go wide.
