“No other man.” Ian squeezes me, hands pawing at my body, lips searching for any patch of skin that they can find. “You’re all mine, Katie. Body and heart.”
“Maybe a little bit of my soul too.”
He steps away, hand still holding mine. He’s inside the room, and I’m still standing on the balcony. This could go either way. “I don’t ask for souls. Only hearts.”
“And loins.”
“Oh, yes, those too. Definitely.” He looks at my feet, resolute on the balcony. “You coming in, dearest wife?”
“The moment I do, you’re taking me, aren’t you?”
“That’s what men like me do.”
I could let him lead me into the room, but if this is like our honeymoon—let alone in Vegas—then I want to do at least one thing traditionally right.
Once he realizes what I want, he sighs, acting like it’s a big deal to pick me up from behind the knees and raise me into his arms. I try not to hit my head on the sliding door. “You’re a handful, Mrs. Mathers.”
I am quite content in his arms. He’s a strong man. He can hold me for a few minutes, let alone carry me. He’s done it plenty of times before, both for fun and for love. “I wouldn’t want to be any other way for you, Mr. Alison.”
The more I call him Mr. Alison, the more I kinda like it.
And the more he calls me Mrs. Mathers, the more special I feel. Although if anyone else called me that, I would probably have to rip their nose off their face and throw it in a trash compactor. See how they like it.
Ian carries me across the threshold, and his visage softens enough to make me think he’s going to make sweet and gentle love to his blushing bride.
Haha!
He tosses me on the bed, watching me bounce and the bed lurch beneath my weight. I am not the heaviest girl in the world, but you try taking a grown woman who is above the national height average and toss her onto a bed and see what happens. I guarantee you there will be some jiggling going on.
Ian looms over me, clicking his tongue inside his mouth. “What a lucky man I am. Having a hottie like you for a wife.”
If he’s going to talk like that, he might as well call me his ex-wife and get it over with. I make sure my look says, “Watch it.” Not that he will. Ian lives to push every single button I’ve got. Especially the one between my legs. “Yeah, you’re pretty lucky,” I mutter. “So what are you going to do to this hot wife of yours?”
“Oh, a bit of this. Bit of that.” Ian holds up my handcuffs and dangles them over my head. When I packed those things, I did not necessarily imagine them being used on me. I was hoping this trip would loosen my dear husband up a little. The man is adventurous, but there is always room for improvement. “Mostly I’m going to tie you up and have my way with you.”
“As you were, then.”
Even though I know exactly what to expect, I still gasp when he pulls my wrist to the headboard and handcuffs me to it. Then the other wrist. The man doesn’t even put them in the same place. I’ve got my arms spread above my head, and I’m still wearing my clothes, sans jacket.
This could go any number of ways. I only hope he knows he’s buying replacements for my clothes if he gets too carried away. He probably will.
“How many times can I say that I’ve handcuffed my wife to a bed?” Ian shrugs. Oh, great. He’s in that kind of mood. “I’m glad you get to share this monumental first with me, Katie. Now, are you going to be good?”
He’s lucky he didn’t say that super condescendingly. Sometimes he’ll act that way toward me because he knows it will get a huge rise out of me. Men. “I’ll be good if you prove yourself worthy of my obedience. You know how this works, dearest husband.”
“Indeed, sweetest wife. I know exactly how this works.”
There are a million things in that suitcase I packed. I’m sure he’s perused it already, but for some reason all he cares about are these handcuffs wrapped snugly around my wrists. Maybe he’s more like a cat. You buy him all these toys, and all he cares about is one plastic foam peanut or the box everything came in.
Then again, he has always been obsessed with restricting my ability to freakin’ move. It’s a control thing. Trust me, I get it.
“My only regret is not getting to write you some exquisite vows before getting married.” He sits on the edge of the bed, looking down at me with a lecherous gaze. “I would’ve written something along the lines of, ‘Great tits. Bit of a screamer. Five stars.’” He leans down and kisses me, muffling any response I’m dreaming up, and trust me, I’ve got a few responses for this guy. Lots of responses, because he’s mauling my lips and sliding his hand down the front of my blouse, grabbing my breasts through the soft silk and dexterously undoing the buttons one by one. When his hand touches my skin beneath, I groan, most unexpectedly. “Uh huh.”