Married To My Billionaire Nemesis

Welcome To Hell, Husband

EDEN

The private jet smells like leather and the faint, maddening trace of Hayden's cologne that's somehow followed me onto this floating prison.

I chose the seat farthest from him, sitting with my legs crossed seductively. He's up front, sprawled in the cream leather recliner with his sunglasses on. The muscles in his jaw twitch as he pretends to read something on his tablet while his thumb taps an impatient rhythm against the armrest.

I know he's watching me.

I feel it like a physical touch, sliding over my bare legs and lingering on the hem of my white sundress. The dress I picked specifically because it's short enough to make him remember every inch he used to claim and long enough to remind him he doesn't get to anymore.

Two weeks.

Two entire weeks trapped with him on some private island Grandma Wolfe probably bought just to torture us both.

I open my journal on my lap, flip to the "60 DAYS OF HELL" page, and add a new line in black ink:

Day 1: Make him remember exactly how good I used to feel under his hands. Then remind him he'll never touch me again.

I underline it twice.

The jet banks slightly, sunlight slicing across my thighs. I shift, letting the dress ride up another inch. Not for him. Definitely not for him.

Okay, maybe a little for him.

His tablet clatters onto the table.

I don't look up.

"Eden."

His voice is low, just the way it gets right before he snaps.

I keep writing. "Yes, husband?"

I barely manage to hold back from shuddering in disgust at that damn title.

He's out of his seat in three strides, his long legs distracting me again. He stops beside me, blocking the light. I can see the shadow of his erection straining against his tailored trousers before he drops into the seat across from me.

He leans forward, elbows on knees, his green eyes burning.

"You're playing a dangerous game."

I meet his gaze without flinching. "You started it."

He lets out an icy laugh. "Can you not stop riling me up? What is this about? Prom night? Come on, squirrel, it's been years."

The nerve of this jerk. How the f**k is he such a natural at acting clueless?

"I think this is about you thinking you can own me because you paid off my father's debts and put a ring on my finger," I deadpan, refusing to let him see how easily he gets under my skin.

He reaches out, slow enough that I could stop him.

I don't.

His fingers catch the thin strap of my dress, sliding it down my shoulder an inch. The silk brushes against my skin. My n****e tightens instantly under the thin fabric. Dammit.

"Careful," I whisper. "You're crossing uncharted territory."

His thumb traces the strap back up, lingering at the swell of my breast. "Grandma wants heirs. I want you screaming my name while you come so hard you forget how to hate me."

My breath hitches.

His smirk is slow and predatory. "There she is."

I slap his hand away. "Don't flatter yourself."

But my voice is too thin, and I'm already breathless from the slightest touch. Hell, I think I'm too horny to function. And I know the bastard is going to use it against me.

He leans closer. Close enough that I can smell the mint on his breath and the faint metallic scent of the cut on his lip from my wedding bite.

"You're wet right now," he whispers. "Aren't you?"

I clench my thighs together. Hard.

"f**k you."

"Exactly."

He stands abruptly, offering his hand. "Come."

"I'm not going anywhere with you."

"The bedroom's in the back. Queen bed. Soundproof. We've got four hours until we land." His voice drops. "Plenty of time to hate-f**k the attitude out of you."

My heart slams against my ribs. Get a grip, girl!

"It's either I snatch you there or you walk. Your call," he says in the most seductive tone ever, the bass of his voice sending heat shooting through my blood.

I stand slowly, letting my body brush his on the way up. My breasts graze his chest, and his body tenses. I'd rather not let him think he's in control.

So, I smile sweetly. "Lead the way, Wolfie."

His eyes darken. Then he turns and stalks toward the rear of the jet.

I follow.

Because I'm not running anymore.

I'm hunting.

The bedroom door slides shut behind us. Dim golden light floods the place, and there's one massive bed taking up most of the space.

He doesn't give me time to think.

His mouth crashes onto mine, hard and punishing. I bite his tongue in retaliation. He growls, spins me, and slams my back against the door. Stars burst behind my eyes.

His hands are everywhere. They grip my hips, yanking the dress up to my waist.

His long fingers hook into the lace of my panties and rip. The fabric tears with a sharp, satisfying sound.

Cool air hits my throbbing core. Shamelessly, I moan into his mouth, and he drops to his knees. He gives me no warning before his mouth is on me. His tongue spears inside, curling and thrusting like he's f*****g me with it.

He groans against my c**t, the vibration shooting straight up my spine. My knees buckle.

Hayden pins my thighs open with a bruising strength, spreading me wider.

"Say my name," he demands between long, slow licks.

"f**k—you—"

He sucks my c**t hard. My back arches off the door, a cry slipping out of me.

"Hayden—"

He rewards me with two thick fingers plunging deep, curling against that spot that makes my vision go white.

He strokes in time with his tongue, mercilessly lapping at my juices.

My hands fist in his hair. I pull hard enough to hurt.

The bastard likes it.

"Good girl," he rasps against my folds. "Now come all over my face so I can bury my c**k in this tight little cunt and make you scream again."

I c*m hard, letting out a ragged scream, my thighs shaking. My toes curl against the carpet, nails digging into his scalp.

But he doesn't stop, drawing it out until I'm whimpering, trying to push his head away.

When he rises, his mouth glistens, his eyes wild. He spins me again, my face to the door.

I hear his belt unbuckle, his zipper dragging down. And then he's there, the thick, hot head of his c**k nudging my soaked entrance.

"Beg," he growls against my ear.

I laugh breathlessly, fury simmering in my blood. "Never."

He notches just the tip inside, torturous. My hips jerk back instinctively, chasing more.

He pins me harder. "Say it."

I turn my head, my lips brushing his jaw. "Make. Me."

He slams inside my cunt in one brutal thrust. We both groan loudly.

Hayden f***s me like he's trying to punish us both, his hips snapping so hard the door rattles on its hinges.

My palms slide against the wood, burning.

"Tell me you hate me," he snarls.

"I hate you," I gasp. "I hate you so f*****g much—"

He changes the angle. Hits that spot dead-on. Stars explode behind my eyes.

"Again."

"I hate—oh God—Hayden—"

His hand snakes around, his fingers finding my c**t. He rubs fast, merciless circles that steal the air from my lungs.

"Come again," he orders. "Come on this c**k you hate so much."

I do.

My body convulses around his c**k, milking him. He follows two thrusts later, pulsing hot and thick inside me, filling me until I feel it drip down my thighs.

Shit.

He's really trying to get me pregnant.

Just as I'm about to snap at him, he presses the softest kiss to the nape of my neck.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "For everything. For the bet. For what happened after. For dragging you into this."

My throat burns with unshed tears. It’s disgusting how a part of me wants to believe the apology.

My throat tightens, and I look away, my jaw clenched. This changes nothing. Absolutely nothing. I mentally repeat the words to myself. The last thing I want to do is get swayed.

The jet dips, beginning descent.

Hayden stiffens. Then he pulls out slowly. I feel the warm slide of him leaving me and the ache already blooming between my legs.

He turns me around.

His green eyes are haunted. I hate how the sight of them suddenly makes breathing a chore.

"Eden—"

The intercom crackles.

"Mr. Wolfe, we're beginning final approach to Isla Wolfe. ETA twenty minutes."

He exhales harshly.

I smooth my dress down with shaking hands. My torn panties are somewhere on the floor.

He bends, picks them up, and pockets them.

"Souvenir," he says softly.

I stare at him.

Then I reach into my discarded purse, pull out my journal, and flip to the "60 DAYS OF HELL" page.

I cross out the first entry and write a new one in bold, furious strokes.

Day 1: Complete.

Day 2: Make him fall in love with me.

Then break his heart so completely he begs for the divorce he swore we'd never have.

I look up and find him watching me. So, I flash him a deadly smile.

"Welcome to hell, husband."