“Kneel,” he says, his demanding voice causing my nipples to pucker under my shirt. “Okay, Mr. Grey,” I say, teasing him, but I do so anyway. “Don’t. I don’t do romance novels,” he replies, and I know I’m about to be fucked. Roughly. Passionately. Brutally. The warning is loud and clear, but I know better. Asher may not “do” romance novels, but he is a romance novel.
