Page 39 of Auctioned to the Reaper

Naturally.

One bed.

One enormous, ridiculously inviting bed.

I turn toward him.

“We need rules.”

He leans against the doorframe.

“Of course we do.”

“No touching.”

“Fine.”

“No kissing.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

“No funny business.”

His eyebrows rise.

“Define funny business.”

“Grayson.”

“Autumn.”

“Anything involving your hands, your mouth, or any other part of your anatomy.”

He looks down at himself.

“That’s gonna make sleeping difficult.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Been told that.”

I point at him.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

He pushes away from the doorframe.

“You’re safe with me, Pumpkin. Always have been.”

My heart gives an inconvenient little squeeze.

Then he adds, “Even if you do snore like a fucking chainsaw.”

“I do not snore!”

“Sure, sweetheart.”