My fervent claim is still hanging in the air when Locke pushes off the stool with a shaky curse and carries me toward the elevator. “I love you, Sissy,” he whispers a moment later, pressing me roughly against the wall of the elevator, his hips working in frantic thrusts, boosting me up, up, up. “I love you so fucking much, honey.”
Tugging back slightly, I unbutton my shirt one button at a time and spread it open for his eyes alone. “I love you, too. My husband. My world,” I say passionately, arching my back. “But I’m not your honey right now.” I press my mouth to his ear and bring my voice up an octave. “I’m your pumpkin.”
We’re barely in the room before the screaming starts.
THE END