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I lick my lips, and he follows the move. “A story on the news of mutual interest.”
“Which one?” He moves around his chair, the perfect picture of calm, and stalks toward the bottle of gin atop the small eating area there. There’s a glass next to the bucket where I’d put it to chill and he grabs it, opening the bottle and pouring his usual three fingers’ worth. “Are we expecting bad weather over the next few days? Is there a visitor coming that I’m not aware of?”
“We both know that’s not what I am talking about.”
Malcolm brings the glass to his lips and takes a sip, savoring the citrus notes he enjoys. After all, it is his favorite brand that I procured for today. “Then tell me.”
“Two bodies.”
“Once washed upon a shore?”
“No, more like a lake with missing parts of their anatomy.” Pressing the number two on the small remote in my hand, I wait until the first riffs of a guitar filters into the room and toss it aside. The beat is heavy. Pulses through me. “Now sit. We have agreements to make.”
“As you wish.” My husband strides across the room to his throne, taking a seat right where I need him. I want his eyes on me. Close enough to touch, but unable to do more than indulge in something he enjoys. My beast is a voyeur. Finds his release between my thighs or while watching me play, something that at first made me feel embarrassed, but I now embrace.
I’m the exhibitionist to his voyeur.
That palpable hunger in his eyes makes me feel loved and cherished.
“Now, since we feel like playing games...” I spread my legs a little, back straight, and let the silk fall off my shoulders, catching the fabric at my elbows. His eyes get dark, heavy-lidded as he takes in the white lace and the specific cutouts that leave nothing to the imagination. The see-through fabric exposes my body: my nipples are hard and there’s wetness between my legs that causes the high-cut bodysuit to stick to my mound. “I’ll reward you based on the truth system. You answer me, and I’ll play a little for you.”
“London, that’s a dangerous offer.”
“It’s fair and just.” My hips sway from side to side, gyrating in time with the thrumming beat. I’ve always loved music, the way it can alter a mood. Brings the coquettish side out of the most serious people. It’s life and emotions and an extension of who I am. “Do we have a deal?”
Malcolm’s eyes become darker; I’m pushing his buttons. The banker in him can’t say no. “Give me a reason to accept.”
“As you wish.” The robe falls and I take the three steps back, my ass against the pole. The cold metal feels good on my warm skin, and goose bumps rise across my flesh. My cheeks rub against the pole, back arched while I bite down on my bottom lip.
He watches with an impassive expression, but the tight hold on his glass says more than words ever can. With each roll of my hips, his hold tightens until the glass shatters and drops of blood fall over the armrest.
Let’s see how long you can hold out, my love.
One of my hands rubs across my chest and upward, caressing my neck before grabbing a fistful of my long locks in much the same manner he would. I close my eyes and tug, letting out a low moan while my other hand skims down the non-existent fabric meant to display me.
I’m here for his enjoyment. I’m here to make him lose control.
My nipples are hard, the flesh tender, and I circle the left one with my ring finger. His rings adorn me—mark me as his to the world—and he leans forward. Malcolm doesn’t give a single fuck about the cuts on his hand or my question.
He’s watching me as if I were the most precious thing in his world. What he wishes to corrupt.
Too late. I’m already lost to his darkness.
“Do we have an agreement?” His nod is my answer. The way he licks his lips seals our deal. “Good boy.”
Those beautiful eyes flash with anger, but beneath the hard look, there’s amusement. “You’ll pay for that remark later.”
“Please.” Releasing my hair, I cup my breasts with both hands and squeeze the two, pulling on each delicate tip. “I want everything with you.”
“Ask your question.” Malcolm undoes his cuff links and drops both solid gold pieces to the floor, followed by the dress shirt. Buttons scatter at his impatient move to rip it off in haste. My eyes wander his face and lower, following the path down his lips and throat to the newest tattoo that marks the day we got married.
“Did you kill them?” I hear myself ask, even though my attention is on his chest. On the mark right over his heart. It was his present to me. The one that means the most: a beautiful replica of our wedding rings and the date and time I said I do.
“Yes.” Malcolm’s chest rumbles with a groan and I whimper, running my hands down my stomach and up again. With every inch of his perfection I take in, I caress lower and then start at my heaving chest again. I’m torturing us. Dragging out the inevitable.
In my mind, it’s his hands touching me.
It’s his body heat that burns me, and when I reach my barely covered mound, I pause as a moan rips from my throat. It’s needy and hungry and holds the same desperation as his eyes.
