That night, with the hearth still burning low and the mountains sighing beyond the frost-glazed window, Lorraine rested against Leroy's chest. His fingers drew idle circles on her bare skin, slow, unhurried motions that seemed to mirror the rhythm of his breath. The warmth between them was almost languid, but when she let out a small giggle, it startled the stillness of the room.
Leroy frowned slightly. That sound, that soft, unguarded, beautiful sound wasn't for him. She had screamed his name moments ago, trembled under his touch, and yet now she was giggling about something else entirely. And in his book, that couldn't be allowed.
"Who," he murmured against her ear, voice low and dangerous in the dark, "made my wife giggle so much?"
She gasped as he nipped at her earlobe. "Ow!" she protested, rubbing it and pushing him lightly away. "I can't even laugh now?"
