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That finally shuts him up, at least for a few seconds.

When I pull away, his hands are still around my waist and that stupid grin is already coming back.

“Shit, is that how you punish everybody you’re mad at?”

“Keep talking and I’ll try something else.”

His brows lift.

“Violent?”

“Extremely.”

“So fucking hot,” he adds, shamelessly adjusting the hard-on straining against his pants.

“Ay, cállate.”

His grin only gets worse. One hand comes up, gripping my face and pulling me straight back to him before I can say anything else. His mouth crashes into mine, swallowing whatever insult I had ready while his other arm locks around my waist and keeps me against him.

****

By that night, my nervous system has mostly forgiven him.

We spend the afternoon doing absolutely nothing productive. We order food, shower, crawl back into bed and put on a movie neither of us really watches. I answer a few emails while Revel stretches across half the mattress scrolling through videos, and at some point I fall asleep with my head on his stomach.

It’s dangerously easy.

That’s becoming a problem I’m choosing not to examine.

Tonight, at least, I have a distraction.

I step out of the bathroom in a black leather mini skirt that barely makes it past my ass and a matching bralette top, both simple enough to look effortless while showing enough skin to make the entire outfit a terrible fucking decision.

My thigh-high heels add another few inches, silver hoops catch beneath my ears, and my hair is slicked back into a high ponytail that falls almost to my waist.

Revel is halfway through buttoning his shirt when he looks up.

His hands stop.

I bite back a smile and walk toward the mirror like I don’t notice his eyes following every step.

“Well, fuck, Mama.”

There’s enough appreciation in those three words to make me feel even better about my outfit.

I pick up my lip gloss. “You okay over there?”

“Not even a little bit.”

His gaze drags from my boots, up my bare thighs, catches on the tiny strip of leather pretending to be a skirt, then takes its sweet fucking time getting to my face.

“Good.”

He lets out a low laugh. “Oh, you know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Getting dressed?”

“Trying to make me act like an asshole before we even leave the room.”