God, I like the sound of that, too.
“You don’t understand,” I begin, my words a little wobbly, “if I’m not tickling Prim’s hackles, the whole family will know something is up.”
He sort of growls as his grip tightens under the table.
“Is something… up?” I ask as my eyes flick down.
“Behave.” He leans in, his threat a whisper in my ear.
“You must be kinky like that.” I begin to squirm as his hand slides higher. “Stop!” I whisper. Or maybe giggle. But then Primrose appears at the end of the dining table, her huff signaling her distaste for our canoodling.
War games, Prim. If only you knew.
Without a word, she drops a basket of bread before stomping back to the kitchen.
“Knock that off,” I hiss as he resumes his torment, pulling my thigh a little wider as he leans in to bite the soft lobe of my ear. “No touchy-touchy.” I begin to wave my hands as though Raif is a fly that’s bothering me.
“That’s not what you said last night.”
“Last night was last night, and today is today,” I say primly, “so keep your hands to yourself. Thank you very much.”
“My hands,” he says, pressing his thumb over the seam of my jeans. “I could’ve used my hands last night, if you’d asked nicely. Instead of pretending to be asleep.”
“I was asleep.”Oh, right there.I close my eyes as he begins to rub.
“If you were asleep, how do you know what I’m talking about?”
“Educated guess.”
“You were so hot for it, princess. We could’ve had our consummation.”
“Stop that,” I say as a pinprick of something hot pokes at my chest. Embarrassment, I think. Arousal too, and not just because of the way he’s touching me. “It’s not my fault you’re too nice to take advantage.” I wrap my fingers around his wrist to slide it away. But I don’t. Not yet.
“Yes, that’s me.Nice.” His growl sends a deliciously subtle frisson through me.
Oh my God. I am not going to get off on the seam.
“S-some people call that a compliment.”
“But not people like you and me, princess.”
“Pax.” I angle my attention his way.
His brow flickers minutely. As though he doesn’t trust me.
“I’ll start behaving if you will,” I add.
“Thatwouldbe a first.”
“It would also have my family asking if you’d Svengali’d me.”
“Svengali is a noun, not a verb.”
And the correct usage of grammar isnota turn-on. So maybe it’s his tone? Those silkily-mouthed words. I catch sight of myself in the mirror above the credenza. My eyes are so dark, my lids half mast, and my face a soft pink. Is this what I look like when I’m…
“Raif, please.” How it pains me to ask when what I really want to do is—
I gasp as his fingernail scrapes and, oh, the vibrations. Who knew the seam in a pair of jeans could be so useful?
