“Come home, Queenie. Come home and let me worship you every day for the rest of your life.” I groan, palming his chest. Maybe because his lips aren’t assaulting mine, I manage to reply with a somewhat coherent answer. “I am home.” His palm skims down my spine and spanks my ass. “Our home,” he growls into my collarbone, planting violent kisses along it. “The yacht, baby. Hang your stolen clothes up in my closet, make your god-awful lasagnas in my oven. Light your girly candles in every room. I want all of it, all of you. Just come home.
