Filthy Rich (The Five Points' Mob Collection, #2)

by Serena Akeroyd

The notion that I wanted her to sleep in my boxers was an irritating one. How did you ask your wife to do that? To wear your shit?

I wanted the scar to be a nasty one. I wanted to see it every fucking day, wanted her to see it too, and be reminded of the weird ass night of our wedding, when two strangers had taken several steps toward knowing one another.

“That was unexpected,” I mumbled to myself, shaking my head at her even as I watched every step she took until she disappeared.

So cute

No other fucker had touched her, tasted her, kissed her, screwed her. Every inch of her belonged to me. I never had to share her, hadn’t shared her with anyone. Every inch of her was innocent, mine to corrupt. Mine to teach. If brains could orgasm, then I’d just come.

I pushed back, saw her there, arms and legs all over the place, zero grace, zero seduction, and it worked on me better than a lap dance.

Accidentally wounding her with words was a slippery slope that I didn’t want to fall down.

She was…for want of a better word, sweet. I didn’t tell her that. I doubted any woman wanted to be told they were sweet.

Then there was the Jell-O she could never get to set. I wasn’t sure how she did it, but do it she did. And it always amused the fuck out of me, even if I never let her know it.

I didn’t understand it, couldn’t explain it, but I figured some things didn’t need to be reasoned or defined. They just were.