Raffa tossed the scotch back in one go and surveyed the remaining guests. Perhaps fifty lingered. “You can finish things up here?”
“Yes.” A glint sparked in Kalim’s eye. “Go to your wife, Raffa, for God’s sake. You’ve looked at your watch every few minutes since she left – I can tell your mind has been elsewhere.”
He knew he shouldn’t be angry. And he sure as hell shouldn’t be angry with her! Chloe had done nothing wrong – as always, she’d been impeccable, behaving with just the degree of appropriateness that her position demanded. Every blink showed him Goran, speaking with his wife. Goran leaning in closer to Chloe. Goran looking at Chloe as though he wanted to strip her naked.
Goran, that bastard.
By the time he reached Chloe’s room, all he knew was that he needed to remind her that he was her lover, her husband, her only. That he needed to wipe any memory of any man, any temptation that another man might offer, from her mind.
She was still wearing the damned dress when he swept into the room, and the startled look on her face showed that she hadn’t been expecting him. Not yet, at least.
He wasn’t angry with her, and yet the possessive heat firing through his body seemed to make little distinction. The thought of Goran touching her, of Goran doing to Chloe what he’d done to Elena – Raffa shuddered from the depths of his soul.
“Come here.” He spoke the words coldly, with all the arrogance many had accused him of. “Now.”
Her eyes flew wide and he felt the hint of defiance in her gaze. Good. He hoped she’d argue with him; he was spoiling for a fight.
“Is there something wrong with your legs?” She asked without moving.
And while he might generally admire her spark, a guttural growl escaped from his chest. A primal sound of possession and impatience. This was not the time for it.
“Here.” He pointed to the floor at his feet, and perhaps there was something in his tone that conveyed his emotionally messed-up state to her, because she did as he said, though her look was one of incredulity.
“Here, sir?” She asked, mocking him, and he both hated and loved that.
“You are my wife,” he said, to himself, more than anything.
“Right now you’re treating me like chattel,” she interrupted. “What’s going on?”
“You’re my wife,” he repeated, louder, more insistently. “And I am the only man you are to talk to.”
“Oh my God. You can’t be serious?”
“You have discarded your servants; I know you have ordered them not to attend events with you, not to attend to you while you explore the palace. Do you have any idea what kind of gossip that opens you up to?”
He hadn’t held any objection to her managing her staff as she saw fit, until that moment. Now, he wanted her to be chaperoned at all times.
“I’m your wife,” she reminded him. “Not your prisoner, no matter what you might think. And I’m also perfectly capable of having a conversation with a man, might I even say ten different men, without doing a single thing to break our wedding vows.”
His eyes were wide and his nostrils flared. The worst thing she could do was provide a perfectly rational argument when he felt so damned irrational.
“Turn around.” A muscle jerked in his jaw as he ground his teeth together.
“No.” Her eyes sparked with his. “You’re being ridiculous.” She turned away and stormed off at the same time, huffing as she crossed the room towards the windows. “You have history with this Goran guy, obviously. And I’m sorry for that. But you asked me to come to the ball. You got talking to ministers and left me on my own. You sent me this dress and you invited all the guests. All I did was turn up, wear this, and be polite to a man who, frankly, gave me the creeps. So? What’s your problem?”
“My problem,” he said with a quietness that was far more dangerous than if he roared the palace down, “Is that I cannot look at you without imagining him touching you and all I can think of is making love to you until you promise me you will never let that happen.”
She gasped, the fierce, desperate plea in his words spearing straight into her heart, making her quiver.
“I didn’t say more than ten words to him,” she whispered.
But Raffa strode across the room, and as he approached, she sucked in a harsh breath yet it still didn’t reach her lungs.
“You are mine,” he said simply, and his lips crushed to hers, his tongue pushing into her mouth, his body hard against hers.
“Say you are mine,” he grunted, his fingers reaching around and finding the zip to her dress.
He needed to hear the words; he needed to hear her say that his possession of her was absolute.
“He is no one to me,” she murmured into his mouth, but that wasn’t enough.
With a growl, he spun her around, impatient, his fingers pulling the zip of her dress all the way down so she wore only a lace thong.
“Tell me you want this,” he said desperately, the words graveled, as his hands ran over her body, finding her naked breasts and palming them, feeling their weight, staring at her beauty as though he’d never before seen a woman’s naked form. “Tell me you want me.”
“You know I do,” she muttered, but there was anger in her eyes, anger at the admission, anger at his dominance over her. She tilted her head back, and he saw the way she was quivering, he knew what he was doing to her, but it still wasn’t enough. He needed her to beg him again and again, he needed to know beyond any doubt that her world began and ended with him.
Why? Why did he care? He had never been so driven by an animalistic urge to make a woman his in every fundamental way, but
