Page 38 of Hostile Bond
“You didn’t get very far, Wifey,” he mumbles, low and sexy. “We’re the same sort of crazy, you and me. Which means I understand exactly what you need. No one can translate your hunger like I can.”
After he speaks, he seizes my wrist and twirls me around, so we’re both inhaling and exhaling the same torrid air. I stagger a few steps away from him to make it known I’m not that easy to trap. I could flee at any second, even though I have no intention of putting up a fight.
The right corner of his mouth hitches ever so slightly, just enough to dent his cheek with a killer dimple. There's something in that one look he offers that holds much more than dark lust. The knowledge of it gives me chills.
Butterflies flitter behind my ribs when he stuffs his ringed fingers into the mussed hair on top of his head and bites his bottom lip. This man’s sex appeal is off the charts.
His chest rises and falls as he peels his unbuttoned shirt from his broad shoulders and lets it billow to his boots. What skin isn’t decorated in ink is golden and glistening, his sculpted torso god-like. He stands before me, lit only by the glow of the sporadic solar lights illuminating the villa’s boundary walls.
Shadows dance over his face when he moves, snuffing out the short space between us.
“You’ll need your heels, Wifey,” he deadpans, nodding to the bench where they’re now sitting primly, side by side.
Those dark eyes of his arrest me as he suddenly stalks toward the stilettos, but rather than grab one, he rotates and lowers onto the bench beside the pair. For a moment, he simply sits and stares, watching me quietly. My nerves jump and my core clenches under his avid gaze.
This is what it feels like to be married to André Souza—unsettled, yet safe. A victim to our uncontrollable sexual tension and the focus of his lustful demons.
“Strip.” There’s an edge to his command that compels me to obey. A wicked vibration of authority and supremacy.
Slowly, purposefully, I reach behind my back and tug at the shiny zipper lining the top half of my spine. Once the material splays open, I hug the soft leather cups beneath my right hand and use the other to lower the shoulder straps.
Content the corset would easily fall away, I let go and watch André’s fingers clasp the zipper of his expensive jeans as he grunts from the back of his throat. Nothing compares to that gaze of pure hunger.
“And the rest,” he growls.
I don’t need to pop the button on my leather pants, because he’d already done it for me on the sun lounger. So, I shimmy them past my hips and take my time to roll them off my shins until I’m fully undressed.
His eyes flash when I pull back my shoulders and correct my posture, fixed as tall as my spine would permit, chin high, and my loose hair draping the curve of my breasts. I’m energized by his presence and how it occupies the entire island. There isn’t a single thing of beauty that outshines my husband.
Fueled by this toxic rush of danger, I confidently pad closer. However, when I lean into him, bringing my mouth a breath away from his, I snatch a shoe rather than kiss him. Rearing back, I steady myself and raise a leg, setting my bare foot on top of his zipper, then present him with the stiletto.
“Help your wife put her shoe on.” My belly flips when he bites the corner of his mouth.
Balancing on one foot, I force my heel into the solid column trapped in his jeans and watch his throat work as he grunts. Without speaking, he cuffs my ankle and elevates his dick upward into the arch of my sole.
He snatches the dangling stiletto quicker than a viper attack. It doesn’t take him long to slip it over my toes and fix it in place.
When it's on, I use my strength to force the bright red sole onto his chest, making sure not to stab him with the thin heel.
“Good husband.” I lick my lips and skate my fingers between my thighs to the swollen bundle of nerves that's desperate for his attention, getting off on the fleeting sense of power he’s gifted me with.
He growls from the back of his throat, sizing me up like a predator waiting for the right second to attack its prey. His fierce expression is caught between shadows and hazy starlight. Equally sadistic as he is compassionate. My pulse skips when the grip on my ankle tightens and his spine straightens.
“Next.” His voice is thick, almost tattered from restraint.
I leisurely lower my leg, taking pride in my ability to tease him and stabilize myself on the ground. As a foot lands on his zipper for the second time, he grabs the waiting shoe and hurriedly slots it onto my foot like a corrupted Prince Charming, his intentions anything but gallant.
Once I’m on both feet again, he takes his time to stand, slots his hands under my armpits, and hauls me into his bare chest. Spinning around, he drops my ass on the table and spreads my legs wide, positioning himself between them.
He shoves the bench under the table. The sound of its legs screeching echoes in my ears. Urgency heats my blood to an extraordinary height of arousal.
“You want your husband to worship you?” I suck in sharply when his hand skates over my belly and pushes me to lie flat on my back. “To kneel before the only woman who’s worthy of his full attention?”
“Yes…” I say breathlessly.
His hand snakes under my buttocks and hitches my ass while he sinks to his knees. I prop myself up on my elbows and stare at his muscular shoulders, so strong and sinewy.
It’s a filthy scene, especially when he drapes my thighs over his shoulders and meets my eyes from his crouched position. At that very second, he flattens his tongue and drags it over my clit, avidly observing my reaction.
