Her laugh skittered across my skin. Sparks of light in the gloom that had been this past week.
"Thank you," I managed, kissing the top of her head. "I guess I didn't realize how much I needed that."
The words landed wrong the moment they left my mouth.
I backpedaled immediately.
"Fuck, love. I'm sorry." I rubbed a hand over my face. "We were supposed to be celebrating you tonight and I went and did—" I flung my arm wide. "That."
She held a finger up. "For the record, I also likethat."
"Really?" I couldn't hide my surprise.
She gave a happy wiggle against me. "Absolutely."
My mouth fell open. "Who knew—Emma Sinclair was a certified freak."
"Says the guy who literally blurted, 'I want to own you' to me like three months into our relationship."
I twirled a curl around my finger. "I remember it being closer to four."
"Nope," she said, mouth popping on the 'p'.
"For the record," I mocked her, "I'm going to tell our kids it was four."
She bolted upright. "What?"
"Jesus—" I raised my hands. "I'm joking."
She cut me a glare and settled back.
"I would never tell the kids about this part of us."
"Damien!" She slapped my stomach.
I laughed, watching her curls bounce as she settled back against me. "Sorry, I couldn't help it."
"Bullshit," she grumbled.
"Oh, so you wanna talk about bullshit?" I tilted my head to look at her. "Bullshit is you picking that weird documentary tonight."
A giggle vibrated against my chest.
"The concept was shit from the start. And that intro?"
My stomach growled—hilariously timed, but true. I had been looking forward to that pasta... before the chicken mush incident.
She propped herself on an elbow. "You've got to be kidding me."
"What? It isn't like I can control it."
She rolled her eyes. "That's my Owner. Turned on by chicken mush."
"Excuse me!" I jerked upright. "I was turned on by you. NOT the chicken mush."
She waved me off. "Sure..."
I tugged her close. Her breathing slowed. Mine followed.
