Page 30 of Yours, Now and Always
Not when I’m inhisspace, wearinghisshirt, and makinghisvery expensive self-control look like a clearance rack impulse-buy.
I didn’t plan to wear one today. I just grabbed something comfortable while we were getting dressed this morning. Andhe’s spent every second since giving me thatlookof his. The one that saysPrincess, you’re a situation I intend to resolve.
I issued my first warning before we even left home. My second one during the drive here when his eyes kept wandering my way. Then a timeout when his hand became a little too friendly for a family drive.
I’m one warning away from issuing a legally binding threat to move to a guest room for the weekend.
Gage has ignored all my warnings. Naturally.
After we unpack the car, dump my snack stash in the kitchen, and watch the girls run outside to play in the garden, we bring the bags upstairs. Gage carries everything like it weighs nothing and places everyone’s belongings in their rooms while I begin unpacking our things in our bedroom.
I’m attempting to fill the dresser when I hear him come in. Then, Ifeelhim when he moves behind me. And I don’t even have to be looking at him to know his eyes are that dangerous kind of quiet that means he’s thinking very unholy thoughts involving me, this shirt, and absolutely no interruptions.
“Don’t,” I say without turning around. “The girls are outside, and I have granola bar crumbs in my bra. You promised me at least one hour of productivity today.”
He doesn’t say anything.
Just moves closer.
“Gage,” I warn, straightening clothes in the drawer like that’s going to protect me.
No response.
Just his hand landing on the dresser beside me, caging me in.
His voice is low. “You wore my shirt.”
“It was on the chair. That counts as fair game.”
“You knew what it would do to me.”
“I didn’t!” I lie. “It was just there. And soft. And it covers things like clothes do. You should be thrilled.”
“Princess.” His voice is nothing but heat and warning. “You put that shirt on, with a black bra, and asked me to behave. That’s not fair. That’s not even fucking survivable.”
I swallow. My pulse kicks up.
Then his mouth finds my neck.
A brush of lips.
A press of breath.
His other hand comes around me to cup my breast over his shirt.
“I’m going to need you,” he murmurs, “to stop pretending you didn’t put this on just to undo me.”
I forget how to inhale. Because that’s the affect my husband has on me.
His mouth brushes the shell of my ear, and his voice is a low growl when he says, “You wear my shirt like it’s innocent. Like it doesn’t make me hard just looking at you.” The way he cups my breast changes. No more patience. Just pure possession. “Like you forgot you married the kind of man who sees that and thinksfuck it,she’s not walking straight tomorrow.”
“Gage—” I start, my voice practically a moan while my brain tries desperately to remember our daughters are here and we don’t have the luxury of losing ourselves in each other right now.
“No,” he cuts me off. “You wore this. You started this.”
His hand leaves my breast and moves lower. Slides down my stomach to the button on my jeans. He flicks it open. Tugs down the zipper. His fingers slip inside. Into my jeans. Past my panties. Right to where I’m already soaking for him.
He lets out a ragged breath. Barely contained, barely there.
