Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 71832 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71832 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
“I wish I met you sooner,” he says, touching the picture with a strange longing. “But I’m also glad I didn’t. It would’ve been harder if I had to wait even longer.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I feel sick. Right on the edge of panic. I’m missing something important, but I can’t figure out what.
“It means that you’re safe.” He puts the picture down. “That’s all.”
“You might think you’re reassuring me, but really, now I’m positive you have a murder dungeon hidden somewhere under this house.”
“It’s not under this house. I keep my murder dungeon and my personal life as separate as possible.”
“That’s not remotely funny.”
He shrugs, grinning. “It’s a little funny.”
“Seriously, Carson. Why would your mother think you might force me into marrying you?”
He comes toward me. I back away, heart racing, nearly tripping over the end table. He catches my wrist before I can stumble, pulling me tight against him. The bastard, he knows how to distract me.
“When I get an idea in my head, it’s hard for me to back down from it. That’s what I mean when I talk about obsession.”
“And I’m an obsession?”
“Yes, Ashlyn. You are.”
“I’m not sure how to feel about that.”
“Feel happy.” He kisses my neck.
I try to brush him away, but he grabs my wrist, pinning it at my side. “Are you always so bossy about your obsessions?”
“You’re the only human one I’ve ever had.”
“Definitely not sure how to take that.”
“You’re the only woman I’ve ever been obsessed with,” he amends, lips brushing along my throat. “Does that bother you?”
“No,” I admit, heart racing, palms sweating. I’m the only woman he’s ever been obsessed with… for some sick reason, I like that.
I like it a lot.
A strange glow builds in my core. Half desire, half excitement. I like thinking that I’m special, that I’m something more than any other woman he’s been with, and I won’t pretend like I’m his first. He’s clearly got experience.
But I’m the only one he’s ever been obsessed with.
Why does that make me feel happy?
I’m supposed to want him to lose interest in me. That’s part of the plan—be so boring that he can’t possibly want to keep me around.
But if I’m his obsession, how will this ever end?
And if I like it, do I really want to escape?
“I want you to understand something, my angel,” he whispers, kissing up toward my lips. I hold back a whimper. “I am a man of extremes. I don’t do things in small doses. When I take you, I take you all the way, and right now… I feel myself falling. I feel myself tumbling over and over, dropping deeper into you. If that’s even possible.” His palms move to my hips, around to my ass, squeezing hard. “I want to explore you. All of you. Body, mind, soul. Your past and your future. I want it all, and I want it all the time.”
I close my eyes, finally releasing a moan as he bites my jaw. “You know you sound crazy, right?”
“I’m aware. I’m also being as honest as I know how.”
“Then fine, I’ll be a little crazy too.” I pull back, staring into his face. “I want you to take me upstairs, strip off my clothes, and spank my ass until it’s pink. Then I want you to make me come. Can you do that for me?”
His eyes flash with hunger. “Yes, my wife.”
“If you do that, and you do a good job… I’ll call you my husband as you come inside of me.”
He lets out a soft groan. “I’d like that.”
“I know you will.” I touch his face. “But please, no more surprises. Okay?”
“I’ll do my best.” He grabs my wrist. “I’m going to carry you upstairs now.”
“Carson, wait—” He hefts me up onto his shoulder faster than I can react. The bastard. “I can walk!”
He ignores my pleas, and honestly, I like that, too.
Chapter 29
Carson
I spend a sinful evening pleasuring my wife, followed by a dull afternoon hunting down Polish soldiers and cutting their throats, until it’s time to take my angel out for a nice dinner. She deserves it.
“What is this place?” she asks as we park outside of a restaurant not far from my apartment on an upscale block. It’s got a black door and no sign out front.
“It’s called Vines, and it’s a private, exclusive restaurant. Think of it like a members-only club, except for food.” I lead her inside. There are very few other diners—I don’t bother telling her that they’re all Crowley lieutenants—and we’re seated at the best table near the bar. A jazz trio plays soft music. I order us wine and request the tasting menu.
She looks around, lips pressed together. “Okay, I’ll admit, Smoke isn’t half as nice as this.”
“It could be if that’s what you wanted.”
She hesitates, sipping her drink. “No, I don’t think so. I like Smoke’s edges.”