Page 121 of Top Shelf

Heat blooms through my chest and down between my legs, strong enough that my fingers reach up and curl against his shirt.

“I choose you now,” I whisper.

He tilts his hips into mine, and I let out a light moan at the feel of his cock hardening beneath the fabric of his sweats. “Would you go with me?”

All the air leaves the room. I wasn’t expecting him to ask, but I’m very fucking interested in the idea of it. I look at his face, searching for the thing men sometimes hide beneath interest. Possession dressed up as tolerance. Curiosity with a hook in it. A desire to make something that is mine smaller so it fits better in their worldview.

But I don’t find it. I just find Viktor, focused and a little stern. And very fucking hot.

“Yes.” I nod. “But you understand people might look at me, right?”

“Yes.”

“They might look at us,” I continue. “But no one touches me except you.”

His jaw pulses. “Correct.”

A fire burns through me at the idea of anyone else touching my husband.

“And no one touches you except me,” I add.

His mouth curls. “Good.”

“Good?”

“I am not going to this place for strangers to touch me, Heidi.” His fingers brush my wrist, then slide down to my hand. “I want you to choose me.”

The kitchen light hums quietly above us, with the broccoli abandoned on the cutting board, and a hot feeling curling low in my stomach. My tote bag has fallen sideways by the door, spilling a folder halfway out, like even my paperwork is trying to escape the tension in this room.

I look at my husband. My temporary husband. My ridiculous, careful, very literal husband, who wants to walk into one of the most private parts of my past and stand there beside me.

“Then put the broccoli away.”

His eyes darken. “Are we going now?”

I smile, and it feels like striking a match. “We’re going now.”

With a nod, he brushes past me to get my coat.

“Then lead the way, min fru.”

Chapter eighteen

Viktor

The club is behind a black door with no sign. I like that.

Heidi stands beside me on the sidewalk in a deep pink silk dress that ties behind her neck and leaves her shoulders bare to the warm Denver night. The dress moves when she breathes, and with every shift of fabric, streetlight catches and slides over her body. Her hair is down, and the gold mask in her hand glints between her fingers.

She is calm. I like that too, because she was wound tight earlier at home. Now she stands in front of this door with her chin lifted and her shoulders loose. This place is familiar to her. And the thought of her coming here to unwind puts heat in my stomach and a sharpness beneath my ribs.

I am jealous, yes. I told her this already. But I am not jealous of the men or women before me, or the nights before me. I did not ask to come here to collect parts of her life as proof.

I am simply jealous of anyone who stood where I stand now and did not understand what a privilege it was.

Heidi glances up at me. “Still okay? You have your very serious game face on.”

“I am fine.”