Forbidden Fate (Crowne Point 3)

She reached for a turkey cupcake, and I stepped behind her body, acting like I was going to reach for the cranberry tarts just beyond her. She stiffened as my body came into contact with hers.

“Are you fucking him?” I growled into her ear.

“He is my husband,” she said without looking at me.

I wanted to bite her.

Mark her.

If West fucked her, he’d still see me. All over her.

I stepped closer, pressing her into the table, jostling the tower of cupcakes.

“What are you doing?” she whispered, looking over her shoulder.

“Did you forget, little nun?” I dipped my head so my words vibrated against her neck. “I told you your sounds were mine.”

I stepped closer until my thighs caged hers. It was already crossing the line coming to talk to her. What was one more step?

Her words were breathy. “I didn’t forget. Maybe I just don’t fucking care anymore.”

I wanted to sink into her, into her soft skin and softer curls. Something about crossing lines, about being a good man, about not being my father, swirled around and got lost in her scent, one I hadn’t smelled in too long.

“Bad nun. You’re lucky you have my baby in you…I’ll be gentle with your punishment.” My teeth grazed the side of her neck. She lifted a hand as if to push me off, and I took it, slamming it back on the table, covering it with mine. “Keep your hands on the fucking table, Snitch.”

“Can he make you scream the way I do?” I ran my hand up and down her bare arm, the pads of my fingers tracing her goose bumps. “Can he make your eyes roll back like I do?” I whispered against her earlobe. “Can he make you come the way I do?”

Her head fell back on my shoulder, and my chest collapsed. I lost focus. I lost sight of everything. The game I was playing vanished.

Goose bumps—fucking goose bumps—sprang up on my arms. This is my girl. When our eyes locked, there was only raw emotion. I trailed my knuckle from her shoulder up to her cheek.

“There’s my girl.” The words slipped from my lips.

And then she blinked and shoved me off. She looked left and right, seeing if we had an audience. I grabbed her bicep before she could leave.

Don’t fucking kiss him again.

It was on the tip of my tongue to growl it.

Those are my lips. Lips that ensnared me. Enslaved me. Of all the things fucking West could be doing, it’s his lips on her that drive me the most insane.

Her nostrils flared as fury rose in her eyes. Fuck, I wanted her to do something—say anything, but she only pushed past me, presumably to go back to West, to continue to take their damn lucky kiss photos.

I felt like I was possessed as I watched West and Story get their photos taken on the second floor. I couldn’t think or reason. I was just pure emotion, pure instinct. Rationally, I knew I had to stay away from her.

It was the only way she could be happy.

But West’s hand was on her waist, wrinkling deep emerald with his tight grip.

Her head was on his shoulder, curls falling in tight spirals down the dark fabric.

“They look good together. Maybe I was too quick to judge.”

Lottie was with me, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Story. The bright golds and ambers in the room suddenly seemed rusted. I smelled the smoke of the tapered candles that had burned out and hadn’t yet been relit by a servant.

West and Story faced each other for another fucking kiss.

My heart stopped.