Page 77 of Dance of Thorns

BecauseI live here now.

“You packed up the carriage house?”

“Were you planning on commuting to Brooklyn Heights every morning to brush your teeth?”

I give him a fake smile, ignoring the way his jaw tightens when I do.

Something I’m quickly learning is that Mr. Dry Sarcastic Biting Comments can dish it out, but gets all butt-hurt when you dish it back. I’ve filed that away as Very Useful Information.

When the moving guys finally finish stacking the neatly labeled boxes along the wall near the door to the walk-in closet, my brows knit.

“Wait,” I say, eyes running over the collection of things. “This isn’t everything.”

Bane cocks a brow. “It is. Your stepmother let the movers in and supervised while they boxed everything up.”

Fuck you, Felicity.

“I didn’t even realize she had a key,” I groan. “She must have taken all my painting stuff before she let the movers in.”

Bane’s brow furrows. “You…dance.”

“I paint, too,” I sigh with exasperation. “And none of my stuff is here.”

Bane is silent as he strokes a tattooed hand over his razor-sharp jawline. “I’ll look into it.” He clears his throat and reaches into his inside jacket pocket to pull out a folded paper. He sets it on top of one of the towers of boxes.

“What’s that?” I ask, puzzled.

“A reminder.”

I walk over and pick it up. I open it, and feel my face heat when my eyes land on the bold-font line at the top.

Contract of consent to physical and sexual activity between Bane Antonov and Dove Marchetti.

My eyes flick to Bane’s, and I shiver when I see the dark, slightly amused, hungry look in his gaze.

“I don’t need to be reminded of our agreement,” I hear myself snap as my pulse hammers in my veins. “I’m well aware of what living here entails.” I glare at him defiantly over the top of the page in my hands.

Bane just flashes a cold, venomous, predatory smile.

“Not yet, you’re not.”

Without another word, he turns and strides from the room, closing the door behind him and leaving me with goose-bumped skin and trembling hands.

Not yet, you’re not.

The fuck does that even mean?

When I signed the fucking thing, I expected Bane would have me sleep with him. Obviously. I think part of me was even willing to. For all that he's a monster, he’s not exactly unattractive.

He’s tall, in insane shape, with a honed, muscled body covered in tattoos. I’ve met his father, Nikolai Antonov, and he’s a very good-looking man himself. But Bane’s mother must have been a model or something, because Bane is just…

It’s a little unbelievable just how fucking attractive he is, from a purely physical standpoint. High cheekbones. That razorjawline. Perfect lips. Intensely dark, deep-set eyes with thick, masculine brows.

I shiver, shaking the thoughts of Bane’s physical attractiveness from my head.

Bottom line, I’ve been expecting I'd have to sleep with him, but I signed that contract more than a week ago, and it hasn’t happened yet.

Otherthings have. Like last night, for example. But spanking me and fingering me into oblivion isn’t the same as Banefuckingme.