Page 217 of A Vicious Love

No bra.

Her nipples stood out beneath the pale fabric.

My body delivered its opinion with enthusiasm.

Good girl, I thought. A thought that belonged in a darker room with her closer and my mouth at her ear.

One day, when she was fully mine, when she had my rules she had agreed to with those clear, stubborn eyes, I might make that a private rule. No bra in our house. No bra in our bed. No bra beneath soft dresses tied at the shoulders, because if she walked around wrapped in little bows, I deserved the right to open them.

I dragged smoke into my lungs and looked toward the storm before the fantasy became visible on my face.

“I’m staying,” I said.

She went quiet.

“I came to work on us,” I added, because apparently I was speaking in emotional sentences now and no one had the decency to shoot me.

Reeves set dinner on the table with the controlled calm of a man trying not to look directly at either of us. Smart. He understood survival.

“I will attend every lake cult activity you attend.”

She shook her head, but the smile stayed longer this time.

We ate in the lounge instead of at the table because Sienna curled on the couch with her legs tucked beneath her and I lacked the discipline to move her into a more formal arrangement. Reeves delivered plates, removed plates, pretended not to observe the full collapse of my personality, and finally retreated right his house under the excuse of reviewing the estate’s security dampeners.

The storm softened after ten. Thunder moved farther away. Rain ran steady over the windows, silver in the reflected light. House Alder turned quiet in that expensive way cottages did when rich families tried to manufacture simplicity with hidden climate systems, and sheets worth more than a decent car.

“I can sleep downstairs.” Sienna gathered the leather activity folder to her chest and stood, glancing toward the loft bedroom.

“No.”

“It’s a good couch.”

Her fingers pressed into the folder. “There’s only one bed.”

“Excellent observation.”

“I mean⁠—”

“I know what you mean.” I put out my cigarette. “We’ll share.” I stood before I did something stupid. “Come on. Bed.”

The loft bedroom sat open to the bathroom with no wall between them, because Bellemeres apparently believed privacy was a weakness. The shower was set behind a panel of smoked glass that hid nothing useful. The freestanding tub faced the rain-dark windows. The vanity ran along one side beneath a long mirror. The bed occupied the other half of the open room, wide and pale, already turned down.

No doors.

No corners.

Sienna went to the dresser first, moving with the careful grace of someone trained to make even exhaustion pretty. I turned toward my bag. Heroic. Historic. Evidence of moral greatness. Then fabric dropped, and the mirror betrayed everything.

The dress slid down her body.

I saw her back first. Smooth skin. Dark hair falling over one shoulder. The delicate line of her waist. Then the peach fabric slipped past her hips, and I caught one savage glimpse of tight black panties disappearing between her ass cheeks.

Her ass was barely covered.

Barely.

A disgraceful little scrap of fabric. A direct insult. A deliberate attack on a man who had already endured weather ethics, family obligation, near death, and emotional conversation in one day.