Page 52 of Pretty Little Threats

“You should fire your driver,” I tell Dare, facing him and sitting, keeping my legs together the best I can. Should have worn the underwear.

Dare’s bulky form crowds the door, saving me the humiliation of flashing the world. His fingers coast down my calves and lock around my ankles to help lift my legs into the car. Fire trails his touch. I ignore it and scoot down the bench seat, giving him room.

Dare slips inside and shuts the door, closing us in the space together. Soft yellow lights line the perimeter of the limo’s cabin and stay on as we pull away from the curb. A bottle of champagne sitting in a bucket of ice waits for us. Dare snatches a flute and fills it.

I take the glass when he offers it. “Why are we celebrating?”

He leans back in his seat, spreading his legs wide. His hand falls on my thigh. Claiming me. My heart skips again. I never pictured Dare to be the touchy-feely type. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate it, but he’s meant to be deadly, cold,and calculating. The pads of his fingers dig into my skin, not exactly hard, but enough to make my core clench. Electricity zaps through my system. I can’t explain it, but something about this man—the one who terrifies the board and my own father—wanting me is intoxicating.

I force myself to glance away and take a sip of champagne, but it does nothing for my suddenly parched throat. Heat crawls up my neck. I take a shallow breath, trying to ignore how viscerally my body responds to Dare.

“Come here.”

Heart pounding, I slowly turn back to him. “Excuse me?”

His lips twitch. “Come sit on my lap.” That fucking palm glides up and down my skin. Heat blooms inside of me, and the wanton urge to open my legs is so strong, I have to press them together. Dare’s dark brown eyes glitter with knowing.

He sees too much.

“Why?” My voice is raspy.

“I said, come here,wife.”

A shiver races down my spine. God, the way he says that one word makes me want to do bad things. Things that go against everything I’ve known.

But we’re married, aren’t we? Sex comes with the package. Fucking him won’t change anything. And don’t I deserve a little pleasure if I’m going to be married to Darian fucking Richardson?

I’ve heard hate sex is amazing.

Dare’s tattooed hand smooths over my skin again, teasing underneath the edge of the fabric, but then it slips away. His retreat is a relief and torture, all at the same time. “You’re thinking too loud.”

I narrow my eyes, and before I can reason with myself, I’m setting the flute aside and sliding into his lap, leaning my back against his chest and settling my ass against his crotch. This way is safe. This way, he can’t capture my lips and steal my sanity.

A rumble of approval reverberates from his body and into mine. Dare’s hands trace down my sides, and he nudges my head to the side so he can whisper into my ear. “That’s my good wife.”

My body sings at his praise.

“Don’t call me that.”

His answering laugh is dark. “Only you would try to tell me what to do.” And then his palms smooth over my thighs, dragging the edge of the dress up, inch by inch. My legs fall open, and he hums in approval, brushing his lips over my throat.

I’m trembling, but if he notices, he doesn’t say a word.

I should stop him. This is a bad idea, but my body is on fire, and Dare is the only one who can stop this burning. One time. That’s all.

Cool air kisses my bare skin as the material rides higher, and Dare’s thumb brushes the insides of my thighs, close to and somehow too far from where I want him. He floats the other hand up my body and clamps it around my throat, his forearm nestling between my breasts. A collar. A shackle. My damnation.

“We were inside that church, and all I could think about was this bare cunt.” Finally, he strokes a finger through my soaking slit. His mouth finds the shell of my ear. “You’ve made a mess of yourself, princess.” He practically growls those words, sending a shiver down my spine. When he pushes two thick fingers inside of me, I groan as my walls clamp around his sudden intrusion.

Dare’s thumb coasts over my clit, a slow and languid rotation, a reminder of everything to come. I fight the urge to arch into the touch. I’ve already given him too much power. He tightens his hold on my neck enough to make me drag in a deep, shaky breath.

“That’s how you want to play?” he murmurs, gently nipping my ear before moving to rest his chin on my shoulder to watch himself play with me. He draws his fingers nearly all the way out before thrusting them deep, right as he pushes his thumb more firmly on my clit, slipping over the sensitive nerves with quick and deliberate movements. “You can try to fight me, you can try to pretend like this pretty pussy isn’t aching for me, but we both know you’re lying. You want me to fuck you, don’t you?” Though his voice is a mere whisper, the question could have been screamed with how hard it hits me.

Yes. The answer is yes. It’s stupid and reckless, but when he curls those cursed fingers and strokes the spot deep inside me, simultaneously teasing my clit and flexing the fingers around my throat, reason doesn’t matter.

“Say it out loud, Rose. Let me hear how desperate you are to come.”

“Dare,” I rasp, choking off when he begins thrusting his fingers.

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