Page 137 of Desperate Games

There’s no way in hell I want to share him with anyone else.

So when he suggests we “go get ready,” I agree.

Only, I have other plans.

“What are you doing, Baby?” Remy growls, low and dangerous, as I close the door to our suite and throw the lock.

The sound of the deadbolt sliding home echoes like a promise.

“I don’t want to go to the party,” I whisper.

His eyes narrow. Then I see it—the memory sparking there.

The last time I said something like this. When he was supposed to play bodyguard at that gala, and instead, I dragged him into my bed and let him fuck me like I belonged to him.

The night I got pregnant.

My thighs clench with the memory. A sharp ache blooms low in my belly. My body remembers before my brain catches up. Wet. Hungry. So needy I can’t even pretend otherwise.

Now, months later, after the chaos of twins, IUD inserted, body healed, marriage tested and tethered tighter than ever—I know I can’t get pregnant right now.

But that doesn’t stop the fantasy.

That primal craving.

Him filling me, breeding me, painting my insides with his hot seed until it drips out of me.

Just the thought makes me sway against the door, my pulse a drumbeat in my ears.

“Yeah?” His voice is gravel now. He’s watching me, body taut, fists flexing at his sides.

“What do you want, Wife?”

I swallow hard, lifting my chin. “I want you.”

His tongue swipes slow across his bottom lip. “And what’ll you do to get what you want?”

The way he asks—like he already knows the answer, like he already owns me—undoes me.

“Anything,” I breathe. Because it’s true.

I step away from the door, eyes locked on his, and tug at the hidden zipper under my arm. It whispers open, and the golden gown slides down my body in a shimmering puddle at my feet.

For a beat, there’s silence.

Then his groan rumbles low, primal, as I stand before him in nothing but a sheer lace slip.

No bra. No panties. The filmy fabric leaves nothing to the imagination.

And the way he cups himself over his slacks? That thick, unmistakable bulge?

Fuck me, it’s hot.

“Jesus Christ, Andy,” he mutters, stalking closer like a predator. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”

I bite my lip. “Hopefully the same thing you’re doing to me.”

He snarls, catching my jaw in one big, rough hand, tilting my face up to his. His mouth hovers a breath from mine.