Page 45 of Wicked Spite
“Aht, aht Jeremy Johnson. Son of John and Bethany. Who live at 1745 Grape Road. Would you like to finish that sentence? Or would you like to tell my wife here that you aren’t going to utter a fucking word about this?”
I watch fascinated, as the guy just clams the fuck up and nods his head, averting his eyes from the larger-than-life man before him.
With one last look at the burning car, I let Penn lead me back to his bike, leaving behind the flickering orange light and the desperate screams of the guy who dared to touch something that belongs to Penn Blackwood.
“Now, remind me again if you think I won’t take care of what’s mine, baby,” Penn whispers, his breath hot against my neck.
Chapter 17
Penn
Reagan is by the fountain, her back to me, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders. She’s fiddling with her switchblade again. Part of me wants her to cut me with it, and the other part wants to carve myself into her skin. I should have done it the other night after I took her on our little pyro mission.
The fucking sex we had that night was goddamn amazing. I will never forget watching her ride me into fucking oblivion.
I stride over to her, the weight of my football gear barely registering as I focus on the hellfire beauty I get to call fucking wife.
“Hey there, stabby,” I grin, holding out my jersey to her. “You’re wearing this to the game.”
“Is that so?” Reagan smirks, eyeing the piece of clothing like it’s poisoned. “What if I told you I’m allergic to polyester?”
“Then I guess we’re about to find out if hives are your color.” I wink, letting my eyes linger on her lips for a momentbefore meeting her gaze again. “Put the fucking jersey on. Be a good little wifey for me.”
Her eyes narrow. “Seriously, Blackwood? Is this your way of marking your territory?”
“Precisely,” I say with a grin, stepping closer. “Think of it as a public service. Letting everyone know you’re taken. You’re doing a civic duty preventing the deaths of many by slipping it on. I’ll work on something more permanent.”
My sly smile never falters, even as I watch her slip my jersey over her head, the oversized fabric hanging off her shoulders and swallowing her frame. Thank fuck she’s tall as hell and the hem doesn’t fully cover that bitable ass. The sight sends a thrill down my spine, knowing she’s wearing my name, my number.
“Your possessiveness is showing,” Reagan quips, adjusting the jersey to fit more comfortably as she ties one side up with a hair tie. “Might wanna tuck that back in. “
“Hellfire, there’s no hiding my claim on you.” I lean in close, our bodies nearly touching as I let my breath brush against her earlobe. “Your mine, whether either of us likes it or not.”
“Jesus, psycho, you really know how to charm a girl,” she snaps, her fingers curling into fists at her sides, but I can see the flush creeping up her cheeks, betraying her anger.
“Isn’t that why you married me? Life is never boring.” I tease as I take a step back.
Reagan rolls her eyes, the bitterness in her smirk barely masking the flash of something darker in her gaze. “Yeah, because I had so much fucking choice in the matter. Newsflash Blackwood, my ‘I do’ wasn’t exactly conscious.”
“Ah, yeah,” I chuckle, closing the distance between usagain. “You were out cold on your feet. If I’m not mistaken, Rae Rae, you drooled a bit on my shoulder during the vows.”
“You’re an asshole,” she says finally, but there’s no real heat behind it.
“You didn’t seem too unconscious when you moaned my name two hours ago, so you’re not that mad about it.”
“If you think earlier was anything more than me getting off…” she snaps.
“And you’re a hell of a lot more compliant than you’d like to admit.” I lean against the edge of the fountain, feeling the cold spray mist my face. “But hey, who am I to stop you from fulfilling your wifely duties?”
She glares daggers at me, her fingers gripping the switchblade tighter. “Don’t push your luck.”
I grin, unfazed by the threat.
I grab her wrist and pull her against me, caging her in my arms. My hand tangles in her hair, tugging it back just enough to expose the slender curve of her neck. “Remember what happened last time you tried to fight me?”
Her breath hitches; she’s remembering alright. I can see it in the way her pupils dilate, in the flush spreading down her neck. My fingers tighten in her hair as if reminding both of us.
“You remember how you rode my fingers,” I murmur, my voice a low growl as my lips ghost over the shell of her ear. “How you begged for it, moaned my name. Pleading for me to go faster, deeper, harder.”
