Page 114

He tastes like sugar and indulgence, and I hate how much I melt into it.

“You’re still such a smug asshole.”

He hums, dragging his nose along my collarbone. “You’re still letting me touch you.”

“Temporary lapse in judgment.”

“Sure,” he says, voice dipping into something deeper, “just like the way you moaned last night. Just like how you begged.”

“I didn’t—”

“You begged, Seanna. Don’t lie to me. Don’t lie toyourself.”

God. I want to hit him. I want to kiss him harder.

I settle for digging my nails into his shoulder.

He growls low in his chest, hands sliding beneath the hem of the oversized shirt I threw on this morning.

He leans in again, lips brushing my ear. “You remember what Ruin said?”

I do.

Too well.

“If you wear something like this,” Rule murmurs, fingers sliding up the hem, “then be prepared for one of us to strip it off you.”

I snort, but my voice cracks when I speak. “You’re so fucking obsessed.”

“And you’re still standing here,” he replies, “waiting for me to do it.”

“Weren’t you making pastries?”

“You don’t care about the pastry,” he says, voice low, teasing. “You only ever cared about the filling.”

I feel his hands gather the shirt. He lifts it—slow, measured—like he wants to memorize every inch of skin as it’s revealed. Up my ribs. Over my arms. And gone.

Then he freezes.

His eyes roam over the lingerie like he’s seeing something he was never supposed to. His breath catches, and everything in him stills.

“Fuck me,” he says under his breath.

I tilt my head, smug. “Already did.”

His gaze snaps back to mine, heat flickering wild behind it.

Then he moves.

He grabs me by the hips and lifts me like I weigh nothing, setting me down on the cold marble countertop. I hiss through my teeth—the shock of it stealing my breath—but he’s already stepping in close, his body heat chasing away the sting of cold.

His gloved hands settle on my thighs—but only for a moment.

He peels off the gloves one at a time. Slow. Deliberate. The sound of the leather sliding off is practically pornographic.

He tosses them aside.

Then his bare hands—warm, rough,real—slide up my thighs with reverent precision, tugging me to the edge and spreading me open just enough to make me feel utterly exposed. I’m forced to brace my hands behind me on the marble counter to not fall back.