His eyes narrowed. "Telling me you were bare under that dress—then walking away. Laughing with Lennox like that. Touching him."
"I didn't touch him." I walked forward, unbothered, brushing past him into the hallway. "Not that it's any of your concern."
His hand shot out, catching my wrist. Not hard. Just firm enough to say: I'm not done.
"You knew exactly what you were doing," he said tightly.
I stepped closer, standing on my toes so my mouth hovered just below his.
"Correction," I whispered, trailing a finger down the line of his chest, over the crisp white shirt. "I always know exactly what I'm doing."
His breath hitched. I smiled.
"And in case you've forgotten…" I added softly, dangerously, "I said I was your wife. Not your pet."
He flinched—just slightly—but it was there. I saw it. The way the word wife curled into something possessive behind his eyes. Something primal.
