Page 40 of Wicked Spite
“Where the fuck are you going?” I ask, crossing my arms and watching her get ready. My eyes rake over her body, already thinking of ways to mess up that perfectmakeup. I wonder what my beautiful, badass wife would look like with mascara tracks running down her heart-shaped face.
“Out,” she snaps back, not bothering to look at me as she applies eyeliner with precision. How the fuck is it so goddamn pointy and sharp? “I need to get laid. Since my dear husband doesn’t seem interested in fucking me, I thought I’d find someone who is.”
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. She’s got a mouth on her. I can’t help but laugh when I see her pick up the lip gloss I used on my dick a few weeks ago. A smirk tugs at my lips as I feel myself getting a little hard just thinking about it.
“That lip gloss,” I say, nodding toward the tube in her hand. “You might wanna rethink using it. It’s got some…interesting history.”
She freezes, staring at the gloss. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Used it on my dick a few weeks back,” I say, chuckling as her face twists in disgust. “Thought you’d appreciate knowing.”
“You’re a seriously fucked up individual,” she says, eyes narrowing into daggers.
“Not wrong.” I shrug, leaning against the doorframe. Her anger is sparking between us, making the air thick and charged. Part of me gets off on it, the way we push each other’s buttons. My marriage can never be called fucking boring.
I’m amused by her outrage. “Broke in a few weeks back when you were in your art class. Had a little look around while you were gone. Just wanted to get to know you better.”
I watch as she tenses up before shaking her head in disbelief. “You’re telling me that when you broke into my apartment while I was in class you used my makeup on your dick?You’re a goddamn stalker. I can’t believe you invaded my privacy like that.”
“Privacy?” I scoff. “Baby, you’re my wife now. No more privacy between us. What’s yours is mine.” I push off from the doorframe and start slowly stalking toward her.
She backs up, wary. “Don’t come near me, you sick freak.”
I keep advancing until her back hits the wall and I’ve got her trapped. Leaning in close, I brush my lips against her ear. “You wore that lip gloss that same night at the bar. Same night I kissed you for the first time. My dick and mouth were all over those pretty lips of yours.”
She shoves at my chest, but I don’t budge. “You’re fucking deranged,” she spits.
“Maybe,” I whisper, grabbing her chin roughly. “But admit it, you get off on it. On me.” My eyes burn into hers, daring her to deny it.
“Seriously, Penn, what the fuck is wrong with you?” she demands, tossing the lip gloss onto the vanity with more force than necessary.
Reagan’s smart mouth is infuriating, but there’s something undeniably sexy about her defiance. Part of me wants to tame her wild spirit, while another part just wants to watch it burn brighter. Maybe that’s what drew me to her in the first place.
“Careful, hellfire,” I say, voice low and teasing. “It’s all fun and games until you push my buttons a little too much. It’s no different than if I stuck my dick in your mouth.”
“Fuck off,” she spits, turning back to the mirror and running a brush through her hair with jerky, angry motions. The scent of her mint shampoo wafts over and it hits me right in the gut.
“Going out dressed like that? Trying to catch a cold or justattention?” I taunt, unable to stop myself. She’s pushing every button I’ve got, and damn if I don’t want to push back harder.
“Maybe both,” she retorts, flipping me off without looking away from the mirror.
“Good luck with that,” I say, stepping closer. “Just remember who you’re married to when you’re out there flashing your ass.” I can see her jaw clench, and it fuels the fire inside me.
“Jealous much?” she sneers, finally turning to face me, her brown eyes blazing with defiance.
“Why would I be jealous?” I ask, smirking. “You’re coming home to me, no matter how many poor bastards you tease tonight.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” she hisses, grabbing her bag and heading for the door.
“Reagan,” I say, my tone dropping to something darker, a warning. “Don’t test me.”
“Excuse me?” she spins around, her eyes flashing like goddamn firecrackers.
“I know you think you’re being miss badass bitch,” I say, stepping closer, “but we both know you’ve got your ‘work outfit’ on.” I gesture to her barely there skirt and fishnet stockings. “Hate to break it to you, but you no longer work at that fucking dive bar.”
“You don’t own me, Penn,” Reagan snaps, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Over my dead fucking body is my wife going to be felt up and eye-fucked by every lowlife in that place,” I hiss, closing the distance between us. “And we both know if I have to go and watch over you, I’ll burn that bar to the ground now.”
