“More,” I whimper. “Please, more.”

Lachlan’s smile borders on menacing. He takes a long moment to answer me, pressing kisses and nips along my jaw. “Try again, duchess. And make it pretty.”

An ache to be filled clenches deep in my core as Lachlan kicks my feet out a little wider and rolls the toy across my sensitive nerves in long strokes. He doesn’t turn it up or make any moves to give me what I crave. But denial is its own reward.

“Lachlan, please, I need more. I need you,” I whisper. The panties tighten around my throat, just enough that I can breathe in a thin stream, but not without my skin flushing crimson. “I need to be filled with you.”

Lachlan leans close to my ear. He holds my eyes with an unwavering stare as every exhalation tickles my skin. “The first time I fuck my wife is not going to be in the bathroom of some bar. So if you want to be filled, you’d better use your imagination and come with what I give you.”

I whimper at the sudden need to leave with him, to go anywhere but here.

I’m disheveled. Desperate. Imperfect. But Lachlan looks at me in the mirror as though he sees through every tarnished layer, every broken mask. It’s the thought of going home with this man who always searches for the real woman beneath it all that propels me into action.

I press Lachlan’s hand over my clit. I grind my hips. I beg for him to tighten his grip over my throat. And then I come in blinding stars as Lachlan’s name tumbles from my lips, over and over, a chant that doesn’t stop until he’s wrung every moment of pleasure from my body. It washes through me but leaves a hum of need behind. It’s not enough. It won’t be until I feel his skin against mine and the weight of his body and the planes of muscle beneath my palms.

My head drops to my chest and Lachlan lets the fabric fall from my throat. The vibration of the toy lowers and then he turns it off. He wraps his arm across my waist and holds me close. I relish his heat, the languorous kisses he layers across my neck, the pressure of his muscle and bone against my trembling flesh.

The door creaks behind us and my eyes snap open to Xander’s wide-eyed reflection in the mirror.

“Get the fuck out,” Lachlan snarls as his arm tightens around me and he shelters my body with his. Xander disappears with a shocked apology, but Lachlan’s eyes stay fused to the door in a vicious glare. “I feckin’ hate that guy.”

“You don’t even know him.” Though I bite down on the edge of my grin, it erupts when Lachlan turns his fury to me. “Are you jealous?”

“Fuck off.”

“You are jealous.”

Lachlan’s deep sigh cools the beads of sweat on my neck.

“Let’s get out of here so I can prove you have no reason to be.” I turn in Lachlan’s arms and pull his glasses from his front pocket. Slowly, I slide them on and fluff up my hair as I give him a smirk. “How do they look?”

“Christ Jesus, why is that so hot?”

“Now imagine them paired with a corset and feathers.” My laugh is the freest it’s felt in a long while as Lachlan grabs my hand and pulls me toward the door. I tug back, not ready to go yet desperate to leave. “Wait, Lachlan. I look like shit.”

Lachlan looks at me over his shoulder, his eyes warm. “You look beautiful, Lark.” When I still hesitate, he turns to face me fully and steps closer. He pulls the glasses from my face. Puts them on. Sees me clearly. He smiles and drags a thumb across one cheek, and then the other. “There. Less like tears. More intentional. See?”

He takes my shoulders and turns them until I meet my reflection. Maybe I still look a little crazy with my trash panda mask and flushed, freshly-fucked blush and my sweaty, wild hair. But he’s right. I look beautiful too.

With a swift kiss to my cheek, Lachlan takes my hand and resumes his campaign to pull me from the bathroom, his steps purposeful. “Now let’s get out of here. I meant what I said earlier about you driving us home so I can fuck you until you can’t walk.”

“Then let’s grab my stuff quickly,” I say before he can stride toward the back exit. “I’d rather not leave it with the band if I don’t have to.”

Lachlan groans but pivots to follow behind me as I lead the way to the stage. Xander looks up from where he packs up our equipment next to the far wall. He gives us a sheepish smile, and I motion to my cello and guitar to let him know I’ll be taking them.

“Can you carry that for me, please, Lachlan?” I ask with a nod to the guitar in the black case. Lachlan squeezes my shoulder and strides toward it, progress that Xander pretends not to watch with trepidation, though he fails. Lachlan mutters something to Xander I don’t hear. I try not to laugh as I lift my cello from the stand.

“A wonderful performance,” a voice says from behind me. Something about the accent is familiar. “The cello is my favorite instrument.”

I turn. It’s the man I met in Lachlan’s shop. “Mine too,” I reply. “Abe, right?”

“Yes, good memory.” Abe drops an appreciative glance to the instrument in my hands. “Been playing a long time?”

I nod before bending down to lower the cello into the case. “Since I was seven.”

“Seven,” he echoes. He squats to stay within my eyeline. “What a wonderful tool music is to escape from darkness. Don’t you agree? Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all the earth. Break forth into joyous song and sing praises.”

My smile is polite, yet brittle. Abe scrutinizes me, but I’m not sure that he interprets my discomfort—or maybe he just ignores it. There’s a flatness in his eyes. A disconnect with his gentle smile.

Abe passes me the bow. He holds on when I grip the frog, waiting for me to meet his eyes. That smile returns, void of light. “Have a lovely evening, Miss Montague. Thank you for the inspiration.”

He lets go of the bow.

By the time I set it in the case and Lachlan joins by my side, Abe is already gone.

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CRAWL

Lachlan

The drive home is the longest fifteen minutes of my life.

I want to touch Lark, but I won’t do anything more than look at her, not until we’ve made it home. And she makes it bloody agonizing, the way she bites her bottom lip when she concentrates, the way she shifts in her seat, her torn panties burning a hole in my pocket. I’m dying to run my fingers across her skin. To taste her. To sink inside her. To feel the weight of her body over mine as she rides my cock and grips me tight. But I’m determined to savor her. Even if it’s torture the whole way home.

And Lark loves torture.

“So,” she says as she takes a left at the light when it would be faster to take a right, “when you said you were going to fuck me until I couldn’t walk tomorrow, what exactly do you have in mind?”

My molars clamp shut so tightly they might break.

“Like … are there toys involved, or is this strictly a marathon situation?”

I press my head against the headrest.

“Do you have a mood board? Pinterest?”

I turn slowly to level her with a menacing glare.

“Are we talking cold baths here? Should I stop for ice? I can pull into Power Pump. Irony and ice, it’s a double win.” She turns the signal light on to pull into the gas station.

“Take that turn and I swear to Christ I will make you beg on your hands and knees for me to let you come.”

Lark grins at me.

She takes the turn.

I say nothing until she rolls into a parking spot and shuts off the engine. She pulls the keys from the ignition and spins them around her finger. My menacing glare does nothing but brighten her smile. “You are going to regret this, duchess.”