The ink across his chest catches the moonlight and my pulse kicks, deep and low. Everyinch of his abdomen is carved, earned from sheer dedication. A man made for war who stands before me like he wishes I wasn’t the enemy.
Without a word, Kingston prowls toward me. The moment he crosses the invisible line between safe and too close, my breath stalls.
His body radiates a heat I’d gladly surrender to, and the black cap he wears still casts a shadow over his eyes, intensifying the darkness in his soul.
“I didn’t give you permission to stop playing, wife,” he says finally, his voice thick and hoarse.
I square my shoulders. “And you didn't offer an applause.”
He smirks, slow and dark, though the gesture doesn't soften the look in his eyes.
“You don’t want me to clap, Livvie,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “You want something else, don’t you?”
He crowds my personal space as he lifts his hand and uses two fingers beneath my chin to tilt my face up. His eyes search mine like he’s looking for proof that I’m still here, still his.
His voice is a low growl. “Strip.”
My throat tightens. “Excuse me?”
“The top. The shorts. Take them off.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Why?”
“Because I said so.”
A beat of silence stretches between us while I debate my next move. I should turn away given the lethal task circling in my thoughts or even slap him to prove I’m still in control.
But I’m not… not really when it comes to this man.
Taking a deep breath, I pull the bra top over my head,heart pounding as the cool air pebbles my nipples. Next, the shorts fall in a whisper around my ankles.
I strengthen my posture and enjoy the thrill when he thumbs his bottom lip, his gaze raking over my breasts. “Pick up your violin.”
I narrow my eyes and glance at the instrument.
"That was an order," he murmurs, his voice low and commanding. "I deserve to watch my beautiful wife perform in a private gig. You owe me, after all, Livvie. Don’t you?"
I nod and lift the instrument, bringing it to my collarbone. When the bow finds the strings, the first note trembles.
While I play, Kingston moves behind me, his hand sliding into my hair, gripping tight at the root, enough to make my scalp prickle and my breath catch.
“Play like I own you,” he murmurs, his lips brushing my ear. “Because guess what?”
The bow shudders across the strings when he licks the curve of my neck.
“I do.” His voice rumbles through me. “Don’t I?”
“Yes…”
“You can be a handful, but that’s what makes you so fucking irresistible.”
A hot smack lands on my ass, swift and punishing. I jolt forward, gasping, the next note shrieking out of time.
“Focus, wife.”
The second strike comes harder, and I moan before I can stop it. The music cuts out so only the sound of his breathing surrounds me.
My readiness to perform dissolves and the bow slips from my hand. I can’t keep playing. Not when every inch of me ispulsing with need.
