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“You don’t own her.” Russ looks at me over his shoulder before Emory chuckles and finishes his sentence. “I do.”
“You’re tempting me to prove a point.” His answer snaps me out of my thoughts. “What point?” “That you’re mine.”
“If you don’t want me to touch you, tell me now. Otherwise, I won’t be able to stop.” His hand freezes, and I almost pout. “I’m a man, and you’re in my bed, wearing my shirt without any panties on, looking at me with those blue eyes full of want.”
“She’s my little Scottie Biscotti.”
“Hasn’t anyone ever told you how irresistible you are?” I stare into his eyes and refuse to acknowledge the heat simmering underneath my skin from his touch. “What can I say to get you to see what I see when I look at you?”
“I’m beginning to realize that you grew up a lot faster than you should have. It's no wonder you’re infuriatingly independent.”
“I like seeing you in my jersey,” I whisper. “Almost as much as I like seeing that ring on your finger.”
“Let go for me again. I’ll catch you every time.”
“What kind of husband would I be if I denied my wife?”
“Then you’re going to be my good little wife and let me fuck you in this bathroom.”
“You want to know what she tastes like?”
“She tastes like me.”
