Ohhhh no.
Ohhhhhshit.
He laughs low, the sound rolling through the room like thunder, and bends over the mattress, caging me with those thick, tattooed arms. His piercing green eyes lock on mine, wicked and unblinking. “Scared, little wife?”
Oh God.
The way he says wife sends ice and fire racing down my spine. My skin prickles, my nipples tighten, my whole body shivers.
Would I have married him if someone asked me a week ago? God, no. We barely know each other. But do I love being his wife? Love the weight of that ring, the way he says it like a threat and a promise? Yes. Embarrassingly, dangerously, yes.
“I’m not scared,” I lie, and my voice comes out fragile, trembling, not even convincing me.
He smirks, slow and lethal, and one strong, inked arm reaches for me. Pure instinct—I kick out hard. My foot connects with his chest, and he freezes. Those green eyes darken until they’re almost black.
“Oh, Autumn.” My name in his mouth sounds like sin. His beautiful face turns feral, lips curling, eyes glittering with menace. “Do you want to fight me?”
The way he says it, rough and hungry, lights every nerve in my body on fire. The urge to scratch, bite, run slams into me so hard I almost moan.
“You’re six-six and probably outweigh me by a hundred pounds of pure muscle,” I say, laughing nervously, my gaze dragging over the ridges of his abs, the thick veins snaking down his forearms. “I can’t fight you.”
“Do you trust me?” he asks, voice softer now, but no less dangerous. He straightens, and sweet Jesus, the way his stomach flexes with every breath, the deep V disappearing into his suit pants, my mouth actually waters. He looks like a beast carved from marble and nightmares.
“I do,” I whisper.
“Then fight me.” He steps back, shoulders rolling, head tilting down, all that lethal power barely leashed.
I bite my lip so hard I taste blood, then slide off the bed. My eyes never leave his.
Fuck it.
I launch myself at him, slamming both fists into his chest. He gives an inch, just enough for my tiny victory, then dodges the next swing like I’m moving in slow motion. I spin, feral now, and sink my teeth into the thickmuscle of his forearm. Hard. He hisses, a shocked breath that makes me wetter than it should.
I start to pull back. “I’m sor—”
He cuts me off with a dark chuckle. “Come on, trouble. Is that all you’ve got?”
I lunge for his hair, but he dances away, laughing again, the sound dripping sex. “Good girl,” he coos, circling me like a wolf who already knows how this ends.
I throw two more punches. He lets them land but barely flinches, just watches me with that hungry, proud glint in his eyes.
“My turn,” he says, voice velvet and gravelly.
I flinch. He stops instantly.
“Autumn.” My name again, gentle this time. “Look at me.”
I drag my gaze up. His chest heaves; a bead of sweat slides down the groove between his pecs. I want to lick it off.
“I love primal play,” he says, stepping closer, “but I will never, ever hurt you. You need to know that.”
“Primal play,” I breathe.
He nods, eyes blazing. “This. The fighting. The biting. The scratching.”
Heat floods me, pooling low and aching. “And the chasing?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“That too.”
