He grunted his displeasure then proceeded to drag me out of my bathrobe.
Though I grumbled, I didn't stop him. "My phone’s in the pocket. With the alarm on."
"Not like you to be so agreeable," he murmured wryly when he flung the bathrobe over to the other side of the room after he grabbed my cell and dumped it on the nightstand.
"I'm tired, you're home, you stabbed someone in the eye for me with a key like I wanted, which means I don't have to do it, so why would I be disagreeable?"
His lips curved, and because his face was a play of shadows and light, I sighed at his beauty, even though that beauty was busted up right now, and reached up to trace his mouth with my thumb.
"You'll never spill a drop of blood, Savannah. Ever. That's what I'm for."
While his words were sweet—for a mobster—I asked, "Do you guys use special soap?"
His head reared back at my question—clearly, it had come as a surprise. "What?"
"I nearly rubbed myself raw trying to get clean."
"You'd been rolling around in fish blood. We might have rats, but their blood smells just like ours."
His nose drifted down to my throat, and when he inhaled, I squirmed but not in a good way. I was half certain the reeking odor of putrefying fish was still the top note of ‘Savannah perfume.’
"You smell like mine," he rasped.
"I am yours," I whispered back, liking his answer more than he could know.
"Then why were you wearing Conor's bathrobe?"
I had to grin. "You're jealous of a bathrobe? It wasn't Conor's. It was in his guest bath."
He huffed.
"Don't be a child, Aidan," I teased, leaning over to press a kiss to his lips. "Everything I am, is yours, husband." God, that sounded so formal. So Jane Austen. But damn if the words didn't resonate.
They did with him too.
He shuddered and his mouth fell onto mine. As he speared me with his tongue, I groaned and angled myself closer to him.
It was only when his wedding ring rubbed over my cheek that I yelped which had him jerking back like I'd stung him with a cattle prod.
I reached up and patted the tender flesh. "I should have gotten you one of those traditional rings, not a square-edge one."
Because, hell, that had stung, and he hadn’t pressed down that hard.
"I'm so fucking sorry, little one," he rumbled, edging away. Farther and farther.
No way was I about to allow that to happen.
I snagged his arm and drew him back to me. I grabbed his hand, angled it, and pressed it to my throat where my turtleneck had protected the skin. "No burns there," I told him.
He growled. "There shouldn't be any anywhere."
"Gimme a week and they'll be gone."
A hiss escaped him. "I'll make them pay for this, Savannah."
"I know you will. I want a front row seat to whatever you're cooking up too."
He stilled. "What do you mean?"