Page 228 of By His Vow

“Then, when you can barely catch your breath, I’m going to wrap my hands around your waist, lift you from your dress, and throw you onto the bed, watching as you bounce.”

“You need to stop,” I beg, already breathless.

“Never,” he whispers. “I’m not stopping until neither of us can take any more. You’re my wife, Tatum. I’m your husband. It never?—”

“For a year, King. I’m your wife for a year.” I’ve no idea why I feel the need to remind him of that right now, but the words tumble free regardless. The second he hears, his entire body stills and he pulls back, his eyes locking on mine.

Something crackles loudly as a bolt of electricity shoots down my spine, rocking my foundation.

“I don’t give a shit about our expiration date, Tatum. Right now, you’re mine. And I have every intention of treating you the way every wife should be.”

It’s all I can do to nod in agreement as he continues to stare at me. With nothing but a powerful look, he renders me useless and strips me bare.

“When this song is over, we’re getting out of here,” he explains, leaving no room for argument.

I swallow thickly, thinking about how it’ll look to our guests if we walk out of our own wedding reception.

Real…it looks real.

My heart flutters and my stomach somersaults.

Right here, right now, it feels real.

Too fucking real.

As if someone hits fast forward on the clock, the song changes and other couples flood the dance floor.

“I need you naked now, Tatum. Are you going to be a good girl and give your husband what he wants, or are you going to be a little brat?”

The need to defy him, to demand that we enjoy the rest of our wedding burns through me, although I don’t think for a second that he’d ever agree, no matter how much I argue.

“Which option do you think is more fun?” I ask, cocking my head to the side.

He smirks, happily playing along as his hand brushes up the side of my body until he can grip my chin.

I’m sure there are plenty of guests who are watching, judging even, but I couldn’t give a fuck.

“I know which I prefer,” he finally says, his face set in determination.

He moves faster than I can compute and a shriek rips from my lips as my feet lift from the floor.

I land over his shoulder with his arm wrapped around my thighs—not that he can get anywhere close with the size of my dress.

“Oh my god, Kingston. You can’t do this. Everyone is watching,” I cry as he begins marching across the dance floor.

I don’t look up, but I don’t need to, to know that more and more people are turning to look at us.

My face burns bright red, and it’s not just because all the blood in my upper body is racing toward it.

Every single person in this room knows exactly what he’s carrying me away to do.

Fisting my hands, I rain them down on his solid ass, surely hurting myself more than I am him.

His steps don’t so much as falter as we finally leave the room we’ve spent most of the afternoon and evening inside with our friends and family.

A door closes behind us, and the music we were just dancing to fades away.

My ears ring and my face continues to burn.