“Just an opportunist, I guess. But you know, when I have my hands on your ass, what I really likeyourhands full of is…”
“Yours,” I say, tuning in his arms for a little mutual butt-grab.
He makes a growly kind of groan, moving his hips against mine. My husband is big into physical touch. Compliments, too. I’ve learned to know when he's about to tell me I’m pretty becausehis eyes turn a little more catlike, and his mouth hooks up at one side. As though he’s having very dirty thoughts.
A sure sign of good times coming later.Literally.
And he’s so embarrassing, always demanding people agree with him when he says stuff like,“Doesn’t Lavender look gorgeous today? Isn’t Lavender’s hair so pretty?”
Not random people in the street, thank God. People in the house.People who work for him.And the poor gallery staff. Basically, people who’ll agree with him.
Except Primrose. Poor Primrose. She’s taken to fake gagging in the place of an answer.
“Lordy Lord.” I sigh, dropping my head to one side. Neck kisses. He discovered my kryptonite.
“I think we should go back to bed.”
“We just got out of it,” I protest. “I promised Daisy I’d make pancakes.”
“Let her wear a hat like other kids.”
I burst out laughing. “No throwing them today because you’re doing the washing up.”
“If you make it worth my while.”
“I might just be down for a little manhandling while your hands are all soapy.”
“Husband handling,” he growls. “Manhandling sounds a little too communal.”
“Only you.” I slide my hand between us, my fingers gripping his hardness. “Oh, you are eager. Too bad we’re going to the park after pancakes.”
“We need a new nanny.”
“I think you should ask Daisy about that. She likes things the way they are. Leo picking her up from school and an hour or two in the gallery with me.”
“Come into the pantry with me for a minute.”
“Not a chance,” I answer, flattening my hand over his bulge.
“I have something you want to see.” He swallows thickly, flexing into my hand.
“I’ve already seen it,” I whisper. “Twice this morning. Up close and personal.” I make to pull away when his hold tightens.
“It’ll only take a minute.”
“Then I’m definitely not interested,” I say with a laugh.
“Princess.” I groan, and Raif digs his hands into my waist. I laugh unexpectedly, my arms flailing and knocking the bag of flour to the ground.
“Leave it,” he says, but I’m already out of his arms.
“No tickling.” I point my finger at him. “That’s the rule.”
“Is it?” He takes a sauntering step closer, and my insides flip. He’s the big cat, all slink and prowl as he eyes a juicy gazelle he’s planning to devour.
Yippee!
“Yes. No tickling. We agreed.”
