Page 46 of Vicious Butterfly
“I don’t like that word.” I grip under his chin, turning his face side to side. “What happened?”
“I thought we agreed not to get involved in each other’s business?”
“That was before someone used your face as a whack-a-mole.”
“It was just fists. I’m fine.”
“You’re scared, or you wouldn’t be running into my arms.”
He toys with my tie. “Yeah, probably not. Look, we’ve wasted at least five minutes on this. Don’t you want to enjoy all your time owning me?”
“I want to go hunting.” I bare my teeth.
Wrapping his hand with my tie, he pulls until our foreheads meet. “Be here with me instead.”
I wasn’t expecting to feel this way. The anger, yes, but the gut-wrenching fear? No. Fear was beaten out of me a long time ago. I decide, take action, and deal with threats.
But Ryan’s right, all of that can be shelved for later. “Once we’re married,” I say with utter confidence, because I will marry Ryan, “your business is always my business.”
He nods. “Same for you—your business is always my business.”
Our chests heave in sync. The air around us crackles and sings with electricity. All it takes is the smallest tug on my tie, and I fall forward. Our lips meet for the first time. Kisses don’t usually mean anything to me. It’s something I do because I know it’s what a bed partner will be used to. A way to get from A to B, B being me inside them.
But this is different.
It sets off a cataclysmic event inside me. I want more, so I move my lips against his, pressing hard. The kiss becomes rougher, hungrier. I feel things. So many things. A spark in my chest. Burning desire. Fuck, there are even goddamn bubbles. And I want more of it. More of him. My hand closes around the front of his shirt, and I haul him forward. He smiles against my lips. I shed my blazer while he holds tight to my tie, not wanting to let me go either, and I press him into the window with my body.
My right hand leisurely roams his abs, over his torso, all the way to his collarbone. “This is mine. You’re mine. You’re my fucking property, understand?”
“Yeah … yes,” he moans.
I don’t know if he means that or if he’s playing along for the quickly dwindling thirty minutes I have with him. I need to know he means it.
Still kissing him, I lift under his thick hockey thighs. He’s heavy, but I’m not going far. He helps by gripping around my waist, moving his center of gravity closer to me—perfect—sliding a hand up my face.
I growl at the hand without thinking, but I don’t stop him. We’re reaching my limit of touching, though, and he seems to sense that, keeping his other hand firmly wrapped within the tie and off my skin. I inhale him and spin at the same time, setting him down on the desk.
His chin tilts up, and my hands find where his shirt comes together. A loudripsound breaks the air, buttons flying. Ryan startles and then glares. “Asshole, you ripped my?—”
I cut him off with another kiss. His kisses have finally introduced me to my kryptonite. I’ll do anything for them. My finger pads connect with his skin, making him squirm, dragging down to his nipples. I pinch, and he cries into my mouth.
“Sensitive, huh, dollface?”
He nods.
Taking a good look, I inventory all that’s mine, wanting to memorize every dip and curve of his sculpted muscles. “So many tattoos,” I say. “Your father’s okay with all these?”
His lip curls. “No. He wants them removed.”
My brow furrows. “Won’t that be painful?”
“Most likely.”
“When you marry me, I’ll forbid it.”
“Is that supposed to sweeten the pot?”
“Does it?”
