“I’ll ask the questions,” I fire back, pressing the tip of my SIG Sauer 9 mm pistol against his chest. He tenses under me. “Is your name really Peter, or should I just keep calling you SpyderMan?”
“I thought we settled on ‘Sir.’”
The word sends a completely uncontrollable shiver down my spine. He practically purred it. It sounds so right on his lips, like he’s totally used to the title—then I remember the conversation we had a couple weeks back where he said that.
“Funny,” I drawl.
“Who’s joking?”
With a scowl, I adjust my finger on the trigger to remind him that I’m holding it—and to remind myself that I’m supposed to be projecting an image of control over the situation. He looks way too fucking at ease for someone on the wrong end of the barrel of a gun. It’s makingmeuneasy. “Are you seriously not going to tell me your name?”
“Maybe once you’ve earned it,” he says lightly, but his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Until then, you can call me anything you like, love.”
I frown. Once I’veearnedit? A wave of hot, indignant anger washes over me, even as the erotic image shifts from being cuffed under him to being on my knees in front of him. Of him threading those long fingers into my hair and tugging at the base of my scalp so my head falls back and my mouth falls open…
“All right then,pendejo—”
He chuckles, undercutting the impact of my insult. “Asshole is a bit harsh, considering our history, don’t you think?”
I cock my head. “Well, SpyderMan is kind of a mouthful, and you’ve done nothing toearnthe title of Sir, as far as I’m concerned.”
“I think you’ll find me to be a bit more than a mouthful,” he promises, eyes dropping to my lips.
I lick them just to put on a show. “You haven’t earned that, either,” I purr.
“Fuck,” he curses softly, grinning to himself and shaking his head. He pulls against his restraints like he wants to reach for me, triceps bulging against his sleeves and making the ink on his arms dance. “You really are everything I was hoping you’d be, Madison. More than.”
A swell of confidence at the praise warms me as the edge of obsession and hunger in his voice sends a shivery thrill up my spine. I lean forward and watch his eyes follow the way my breasts swell over the top of the bra, shining with raw desire. It’s not a push-up, more a bralette—scraps of lace and satin held together with elastic, not underwire—but it covers very little. And it’s safe to say he appreciates that.
“I’d love to say the same, but you won’t tell me who you really are.” I sit back and press the gun harder against his sternum.
The sound of denim catching against lace is a roughly erotic scratch as he shifts underneath me, rocking his hips in a small circle. I gasp as he positions his thick, pulsing length perfectly between my lips and rocks his hips so it slides through my slit. My eyes almost flutter shut as the sensation sends a wave of heat prickling under my skin. Then I rear back and gape down at the wet spot on the front of his jeans. I’m not sure who caused it. Probably a group effort.
“Are you… getting harder?”
His grin shifts into one of true amusement. “What can I say? Nearly everything you do turns me on, but this violent side is hot as fuck."
“You’re kind of a freak, huh?”
“You like it because so are you.”
Fuck me.I do and I am.
Like he knows what I’m thinking, he does it again, and I have to swallow the groan. “I had no idea how you’d react to the truth, but being handcuffed to your bed and threatened with a gun issomuch better than anything I imagined,” he says.
I choose to ignore how that makes the ache deep inside of me worse, because if I let myself focus on how badly I want to unzip his pants and peel back the waistband of his boxer briefs… well, I won’t get my questions answered if my mouth is too full to ask them.
“You’re remarkably chill for a guy being held at gunpoint,” I observe, lifting a brow.
“You won’t kill me,” he returns evenly.
“You’re right. I won’t. But shooting someone in the dick doesn’t usually kill them.”
His laugh is self-deprecating. “I think that particular part of my anatomy is safe—perhaps the only part of me that is, considering how badly you seem to want it.”
I roll my eyes, but he’s not fucking wrong. Time to get back on track. “We’ll see about that—kind of depends on how satisfying your answers are. Now, how long have you known who I was?”
“Not long,” he replies, his expression falling into something more serious, like he wants me to know he’s not joking. “I only learned your true identity after our first date. And… it was a complete surprise, if I’m honest.”
