Page 180 of Hate You More

My Spanish lover, minus the sexy accent, whispers the exchange rate to me.

“Rude! Is that what an intimate moment with your wife is worth to you?”

“A thousand,” he rasps, his forefinger and thumb pinching my nipple over the fabric of my bra.

“Cheapskate,” I moan as I fight to bring our bodies closer.

“Ten thousand.” His touch feels like wildfire against my skin. “A hundred thousand.”

“Yes!”

“A million euros transferred to your bank account if you let me between your legs right now.”

“You’re overplaying it,” I whimper, fighting the inevitable.

“I’m being serious.” He holds me. Squeezes. Licks the salt from my collarbone. It’s all so good. “I’ll write that check right now.”

My God, he means it.

A ripple of something runs through me. Excitement. Maybe with a hint of disgrace.

“A million euros, payable to your fund.” Still holding my wrists, Troy hooks his finger into my bra, releasing the pebbled bud of my nipple to his mouth.

“Oh, God. Yes!”

My insides clench with need as his hand closes over me. The pressure is divine, the rasp of the silk against my clit a temptation itself. “How fond are you of these panties?”

It must’ve been a rhetorical question as my panties are no longer on my body but in his hand. “My God.” I glance at the fabric, then at his face. “You really did that? Those were La Perla.”

“Tater Tot.” My name sounds like a chastisement. “Are you gonna earn that money or not?”

“What do you think?” I look into his beautiful face, and my heart is fit to burst. Under the humor and the banter and the complaints, that’s my husband. My Troy. It’s hard to believe that, after everything, he’s mine.

I love him so much.

“Baby, remind me, why are we standing in a hotel room when we have a perfectly good yacht moored at the marina and five or six perfectly good bedrooms to fuck in?”

“Six,” I correct. “And it’s a superyacht. For the thrills?” I give a shrug, which is not so easy given my arms are still above my head. I lower them to his shoulders instead. “Keeping it fresh? How about protecting your mother’s poor offended eyeballs?”

“You’re too sensitive,” he says, kissing his way down my body. The rasp of his sandy stubble against my skin feels heavenly. “Wait—that’s one of the many things I love about you. That you’re so, so sensitive.” His tongue circles my clit, slow and deliberate, his fingers a delicious breach. He gives a groan like a starving man, the first brush of his tongue between my legs long and lush. “Who makes you come, Clara?”

“You. Only you.”

He laps at the sensitive peak of my clit, my nerve endings singing. “Who owns this pussy?”

Pleasure surges through me as I moan, “You do.”

“Tell me.” The grit in his tone is so very delicious.

“My husband owns me, mind, body, and soul.”

“It’s only fair,” he murmurs. “Considering you own me just the same.” Then he puts his mouth to me like a man who knows no restraint.

The wet velvet of his tongue makes stars bloom and burst behind my eyelids. My climax gathers like a storm, growing and growing until I’m crying out, shuddering, gasping, and anchoring my hands in his hair.

As I slide back into my body, I make a mewling sound as Troy presses his lips to the light freckles on my chest.

“Cold, baby?” he asks as I give into a shiver.