“You really missed the mark, Viacava.” I cock a brow. “I was kind of hoping for signed divorce papers. Something practical.”
Kingston doesn’t flinch. He just crowds me with his scent and towering height. “That’ll never happen, wife.”
My pulse betrays me again, thudding hard.
“You’re wearing that tonight,” he adds.
“Bossy much, husband?” I mutter, fingers ghosting over the pendant.
“I like it when you call me that.” He winks and places his hand on my lower back, guiding me out of the apartment.
Neither of us speaks in the elevator but that musky cologne he wears does very tingly things to my body.
Reaching a black SUV in the underground garage, another suited man opens the back passenger door for us. Kingston stands back and lets me in first.
We sit close, our legs touching every now and again. His thigh, solid and strong, presses against mine in a way that’s unintentional but completely impossible to ignore.
When the driver pulls into the evening traffic, I glance sideways at Kingston.
He’s staring out at the city streets through tinted glass, the muscles in his forearms flexing under his fitted jacket, and I mentally berate myself for thinking about his tatted arms wrapped around me.
“So,” I say, smoothing the silk over my lap, “I take it this evening is another calculated move?”
He doesn’t turn. “Whatever do you mean, wife?”
“C’mon, Kingston. Lincoln Center. Mahler. Silk and pretenses. It stinks of a PR stunt.” I roll my eyes. “You could’ve staged an evening in a restaurant or taken me to a jewelry store and lined up paparazzi outside while you pay for my uber pricey diamond necklace. What are ya trying to prove?”
His mouth quirks. “You think I need to prove anything?”
“I think you like control,” I reply. “And taking me to a show I’ve always wanted to see is very unlike you.”
He finally turns his head to look at me, eyes dark and mysterious.
“What would it take,” he asks out of the blue, “to actually make you happy, Livvie?”
The question is so unexpected, so quiet and pointed, that for a second, I forget how to breathe.
“Hmm… a plane ticket to Europe, a bottle of Pinot Grigio, and maybe one week without anyone pointing a gun at me.”
He doesn’t laugh. “That’s a low bar.”
“It’s a realistic one,” I counter. “And I’m actually easily pleased when you get to know me.”
He leans in, his shoulder brushing mine, his voice turning huskier. “If you’re easily pleased, then why aren’t you thanking me for organizing a spectacular date night?”
“I’ll thank you after the event… when I’m convinced you aren’t up to something.”
“Yeah?” he murmurs, “how do you plan to thank me?”
My pulse kicks, but I hold his gaze steady. Then I smile—slow, syrupy, the kind that always makes men lean in before they fall.
“Maybe I could wrap my mouth around my husband's big fat dick right when the orchestra hits its crescendo. Or… maybe I’d just pat him on the back and offer a sweet O’Callaghan smile.”
The grin he gives me in return isn’t kind. It’s carnal. “That dirty-talking mouth of yours… it belongs to Mrs. Viacava.”
“You think that would make my mouth any less lethal?”
I hold his gaze just long enough to make sure he knows Iwanthim thinking about me sucking him off before I wave a very small white flag.
