A laugh punched out of me. “You stole Harringtons from a random dynasty wife.”
“I did not steal them. I redirected her.”
“Like a port shipment.”
“Exactly,” she said, pleased. “You do like my criminal tendencies.”
I did. I liked everything about her when she was lit up like this.
“This is the part where you call them obscene,” she said, wiggling her toes in my hold. “So I can remind you that obscene can be pretty.”
“They’re obscene. And I’m jealous.”
Her eyes widened. “Of my shoes?”
“Of whoever paid for them.”
She blinked once, then again, like she’d expected teasing, not that. “Vince?—”
“You were in Harrington. In Harlan. With Atticus and your uncles, walking around in a dress that makes grown men stupid, picking out heels that cost more than some cars. And you didn’t use my card.”
“I’m not using your card for shoes. That’s insane.”
“It’s not insane. It’s basic math. My sub, my responsibility, my card.”
She laughed, tried to tug her foot back; I didn’t let her. “You’re impossible.”
“You’re underutilising my assets.”
“That’s a terrifying sentence.”
“You’re supposed to let me provide for you. Not because you can’t. Because I want to.”
Her eyes softened, then slid away, guilty. “I already live in your penthouse every second weekend. I’m not also emptying your accounts on silk and leather.”
“You wouldn’t make a dent. And if you did, I’d work harder. I like working harder when it’s for you.”
“That’s very?—”
“Intense,” I supplied.
“Yes.”
“Welcome to dating a Crow. You get the syndicate portfolio, the overprotective instincts, and a man who gets personally offended when someone else pays for his girl’s shoes.”
“Atticus didn’t buy them,” she said quickly. “I did.”
Her hand slid down, covering mine where it circled her ankle. “I like buying my own things. It makes me feel like I exist outside of everyone’s ledgers. Not just as—“ She cut herself off. Asset.
I tightened my grip, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind her whose hand was on her now.
“I’m not saying you can’t buy your own shoes. I’m saying if you see something that makes your eyes look like this…” I tipped my chin toward her face. “…and you don’t tell me, I’m offended on principle. I want the pleasure of spoiling you.”
“You already do. With time. And calls. And… everything else.”
“That’s not spoiling. That’s baseline. That’s what you get for waking up and choosing me to be your dom. Spoiling is extra.”
She opened her mouth, probably to deflect, then shut it again when my thumb stroked the inside of her ankle, slow.
