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“Not actively. Why?”

“Because that was a caress.”

“It was not. I slapped you as hard as I could.”

I roll my eyes at his sarcastic laugh, and shake out my hand. It wasn’t all I had. But I’m not mad and I’m not being attacked right now. I’m genuinely happy. Maybe the happiest I’ve ever been. How the hell am I supposed to assault the person responsible for that?

“Was it a slap?” I ask him seriously.

He takes my hand and kisses the palm before rubbing it with his thumbs to relieve some of the sting.

“You held your hand correctly but your stance was shit.”

“You know I’m not trying to be an MMA fighter, right?”

“What do you know about MMA?”

“It’s barbaric.”

“You’ve seen it?” At my nod, he follows up with, “In person?”

“Of course not. I watched it on TV.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“Obviously you’re a fan.”

“Why do you say that?”

I gesture to the punching bags.

“The bags give me something to let my frustration out on,” he says, not confirming or denying the claim.

“You must have a lot of frustration.”

“I live with a very frustrating woman.”

“Your stepmom,” I say sympathetically. I know better than anyone how insufferable my mom can be.

That earns a glimmer of a grin before he cups my face and tilts my head back so he can stare down at me. “Her daughter actually.”

“Oh, so it’s your stepsister who frustrates you.”

“To the brink of insanity.”

“Just the brink?”

“Past it when she wears stuff like this.” There’s a tug on the high hemline of my shirt and then Khaos’s fingertips are grazing the skin beneath my breast in a way that has my internal temperature skyrocketing.

“I’m not sure how this is going to work if you’re a boob man.”

“Kota.” Leaning down until his lips brush my ear, he whispers against the shell, “I’m not a boob man.”

“What kind of man are you?”

“Yours.”

Khaos’s hand slides around to my back and pulls until I’m flush against him. Even though we had sex a couple hours ago, I can feel him getting hard again.