Far from it.
“Fine.”
The word came out too flat. I didn’t correct it. I reached back, flicked the bedroom lights down low, then moved behind her before I changed my mind and started a dynasty war over jewellery.
My hands found her shoulders. I slid my fingers under the pink fabric, traced the line to the back of her neck and followed the chain down.
“This comes off first,” I murmured.
A little shiver ran through her. “Territorial much.”
“Always.”
I unclasped the necklace, careful not to pinch, and let it drop into my palm. It was heavier than it looked.
I set it on the dresser instead of hurling it, which I decided qualified me for sainthood, then went back to the more urgent problem in front of me. I caught the zip between two fingers and eased it down, slow.
Fabric loosened. Her shoulders rolled. The blush pink slipped down. I helped it over her ass, knuckles deliberately brushing skin. She stepped out of it with care, heels clicking once on the floor, and I kicked the dress aside without taking my eyes off her.
For a second, my brain refused to process what I was seeing.
She’d worn white. Innocent on purpose.
The bra was all tiny details and bad intentions. Sheer enough that I could just make out the shadow of her nipples under the cups, edged in delicate lace. Narrow straps sat on her shoulders like they had no idea they were supporting a sin. In the centre, between her breasts, a ridiculous little bow waited like a secret.
The panties matched. High on her hips, cut to show off the long line of her legs, lace framing the swell of her ass and disappearing between her thighs in a way that made my mouth go dry. Another bow sat over the bone of her hip, small and smug.
Holy and unholy in the same breath.
My perfect little sub, in lingerie that would have looked sweet on anyone else and looked like a fucking sin on her.
It ruined me.
Absolutely wrecked whatever thin thread of control I’d been pretending to have.
She shifted under the weight of my stare, fingers tightening on the bedframe. “You’re very quiet.”
“Processing.”
“Good processing or bad processing.”
The question shook out of her on a shaky little laugh. She was doing her best to sound light. My girl, always trying to manage my reactions.
My hands found her waist, thumbs pressing into the dip above the panties. I leaned in, let my mouth brush the shell of her ear.
“Baby, I have never seen anything more unholy and innocent at the same time.”
Her breath caught.
“You listening to Daddy this well?” My thumbs stroked slow circles on her. “Saving this for me? Does something to me.”
Her shoulders relaxed a fraction. “Good… something?”
“Dangerous something. Primal something. Viking-on-a-raiding-party something.”
She scoffed helplessly. “You are not a Viking.”
“I’m the Crow who’s going to put his own necklace on you one day and lose this one in a safe,” I thought, but didn’t say. Aloud, I tilted her head just enough that I could kiss the side of her neck where Atticus’s stone had been resting.
