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Bridget von Ascheberg was mine and mine alone. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t mine to take. I was taking her anyway, and if I could tattoo myself onto her skin, bury myself into her heart, and etch myself onto her soul, I would.
“But first, I want to make one thing clear. From this point on, you’re mine. No other man touches you. If they do…” My fingers dug into her skin. “I know seventy-nine ways to kill a man, and I can make seventy of them look like an accident. Understand?”
So fucking beautiful. So fucking mine.
She wasn’t mine to take, but I was taking her anyway.
“Keep your underwear, gloves, and heels on,” he said, still in that deceptively soft tone. “And crawl to me.”
“You asked me if I’d ever been in love. I said no.” He pressed a soft kiss to my mouth. “Ask me again, princess.”
“In Costa Rica, you asked if I’d ever been in love. I said no.” I lowered my head until our foreheads touched and her lips were scant inches from mine. “Ask me again.”
“Have you ever been in love, Mr. Larsen?” “Only once.” I slid my hand up from her neck to the back of her head, cupping it. “And you, princess. Have you ever been in love?” “Only once,” she whispered.
