“Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” she says, wiggling her toes. “You paint the rest. You’re so worried about your precious couch getting ruined—you do it.”
I stare at her like she’s grown a second head. “I’m not painting your fucking toenails.”
“Why not? Afraid you’ll like it? Afraid it might damage your big bad alpha male image?” She smirks. “Nobody’s here to see but me.”
It’s a challenge. She’s baiting me, and I’ve never backed down yet.
“Fine,” I say, taking the tiny brush from her hand. “But if you tell anyone about this, I’ll fucking deny it.”
She grins triumphantly, stretching her leg out and placing her foot in my lap. “I wouldn’t dream of ruining your reputation, Satan.”
I examine her foot, noticing she’s already done the big toe and the one next to it. The polish is blood red, almost the exact shade I’d choose if someone asked me what color best represents her—vibrant, dangerous, impossible to ignore.
“If you fuck this up, I’ll murder you in your sleep,” she warns as I bring the brush to her nail.
“Hold still and I’ve never half-assed anything in my life,” I command, dipping the brush into the bottle. I steady her foot with my left hand, wrapping my fingers around her ankle to keep her in place.
I apply the first stroke carefully, my hand surprisingly steady considering I’ve never done this before. The brush glides over her nail, leaving a perfect streak of crimson.
“Mmm, that’s debatable,” she teases, wiggling her toes slightly. “Your performance the other night was definitely lacking.”
My head snaps up. “The fuck it was. You came three times.”
Her smile is downright wicked. “I’m an excellent actress.”
“Bullshit,” I growl, deliberately running the brush along the side of her toe, leaving a streak of red. “Oops.”
“You asshole!” She tries to jerk her foot away, but I hold her ankle firmly.
“Stay still or they’ll all look like shit.” I grab a tissue from the box on the side table and clean up my deliberate mistake. “And for the record, you can’t fake the way your pussy clenches around my dick when you come.”
Her cheeks flush slightly. “Just paint my fucking nails.”
I smirk and return to the task, feeling strangely satisfied as each nail turns glossy red. There’s something weirdly intimate about holding her foot like this, touching her with no sexual intent. Well, minimal sexual intent. I’m still thinking about bending her over the couch later.
“You’re actually not terrible at this,” she admits, watching me work.
“I excel at everything I do,” I respond, focusing on the pinky toe. “Whether it’s basketball, overthrowing my father or painting your fucking toenails.”
She snorts. “Your ego is exhausting.”
I finish her foot and pat her ankle. “Other one.”
She obediently lifts her other foot, resting it on my thigh.
“So you really did it,” she says quietly as I work on her middle toe. “You actually took everything from Vincent.”
“Not everything.” I keep my eyes on her foot, concentrating on staying inside the lines. “He still has his name. For now.”
“Jesus Christ, you’re ruthless.”
I glance up at her, catching the hint of admiration in her eyes. “He tried to effectively sell you, Seraphina. He’s lucky I didn’t put him in the ground next to Richards.”
Her pinky toe is tiny, barely bigger than the brush itself.
“Almost done,” I murmur, adding a final stroke to her pinky toe. “See? Fucking perfect.”
