Arriving at the table again, I reach down and lift the back of her dress, bunching the fabric up at her waist. My, my, my. The sight sends a chuckle rumbling in my chest.
Pink cotton underwear. Plain. Practical. And covered in tiny pit bulls with wings.
“Adorable.” I move closer so she feels my arousal.
She squirms, her face pressed against the table. “Don’t?—”
“Don’t what?” I rub my thumb along the elastic. “Don’t admire what’s mine? Or don’t pretend you don’t want this?”
She shuts her mouth. So, I weigh the mafia book, showing off the dark, brooding cover she loves so much.
“You like these bad mafia boys in the books, Lexie?” My accent thickens. “Let’s see if you can handle one in your very own kitchen.”
She stiffens the moment I bring the book down against her backside—a sharpthwackthat makes her gasp and squeak. Not hard enough to bruise, but enough to sting.
“Hmm,” I muse and open the book, placing it in front of her face.
“Hey! Don’t crack the spine,” she protests.
Christ, must every word from her mouth, every deed she does, and every move she makes be so damn precious?
“Read. Out loud. Let me hear what you’ve been fantasizing about.”
Her voice trembles, “‘He pressed the cold barrel of the gun against my temple, his eyes dark with?—’”
I bring the book down again, another stinging slap. She yelps.
“Wrong. No self-respecting boss would press a gun to a woman’s temple. Too much risk of accidental discharge. You’d press it to the base of the skull or the ribs. Control, Lexie. It’s always about control.”
“I…I didn’t write it?—”
“Keep reading.”
She fumbles for another passage. “‘The Don’s men surrounded the warehouse, their silencers gleaming in the moonlight?—’”
Another smack. She cries out, her hips jerking against the table. Her fingers claw at the surface.
“Silencers don’t gleam,” I correct, lowering my tone. “They’re matte black. And we call them suppressors, not silencers. Your romance authors need to do better research.”
“Oh…“ she whimpers. “Liam, please?—”
“Please, what?”
A pause. A tear falls. Sweat glistening her cheeks. “Um…I-I don’t know.”
Eager to see what lies beyond those pretty, pink panties, I give her five more smacks, then set the book aside. I smirk, finding the cotton damp, her wetness confirming what I suspected.
Turning her onto her back, I admire her state. Her pretty breasts pushed tight against the fabric of her dress, her nipples so hard, I swear I see the rosy pink. Now, I spread her legs and step between them, grinning. My dick rubs her inner thigh. She moans, shock and yearning coloring her face.
“Are you going to…? Oh, God!”
Aye. I am indeed.
CHAPTER 7
Elexia
When Liam lowers his head between my thighs, my stomach doesn’t just somersault. It’s a thousand roller coasters with triple loops. Undeniable desire pulses from my pussy, drenching my underwear.
