40
1041 Words
He smiles.
I swallow nervously and dart a glance toward the door. He lowers his head and inhales deeply against my neck. His beard tickles my cheek. He smells like soap and clean skin. When he exhales, it’s with a low groan that vibrates all the way through me.
This feels like something very different than a business arrangement.
The rock-hard erection pulsing against my hip especially doesn’t feel very businesslike.
Lying stiffly beneath him with my pulse screaming through my veins, I whisper, “Will you please let me up?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
He sucks on my earlobe, then opens his mouth over the throbbing pulse on the side of my neck and softly bites me.
My n*****s harden. Heat spreads throughout my lower body, belly to thighs. I shiver involuntarily, which encourages my captor to flex his hips into mine. Then he’s kissing my throat down to my collarbone as I lose my breath and a big chunk of my mind.
“Should I have asked when?”
As an answer, he rubs his cheek against my chest, dragging it over my hard n*****s. Then he cups my breasts in both hands and bites one of my n*****s right through my blouse and b*a.
When I cry out and arch into his hands, he presses slightly harder with his teeth and firmly pinches my other n****e.
Pleasure ripples through me in hot, delicious waves. Sweat mists my skin. I grab the back of his jacket and try desperately not to give in to the growing need to rock my pelvis against his.
I already know that my panties are wet, because my c**t is throbbing.
He breathes, “Tell me you want me.”
He might as well have thrown a bucket of ice water on my head for what it does to my state of arousal. Flinging my arms out against the bed, I groan. “This again? Why is that so damn important?”
“Tell me.”
“Are you really such a narcissist that you need every woman in your orbit to want to have s*x with you?”
“No. Only you. Tell me.”
I’m so frustrated now that I pummel his back with my fists. I might as well be smacking a brick wall. He doesn’t budge, but he does take my face in his hands and stares down at me in blazing hot intensity, his lips thinned and his nostrils flaring.
He growls, “You’re getting your ten million dollars. Now I want you to—”
“Twenty.”
He closes his eyes, breathes for a moment, then opens his eyes again and incinerates me with his gaze.
“Yes. Twenty. It seems like a very small f*****g thing for me to ask you to tell me the truth in return.”
“Maybe you should’ve put it in the contract.”
Through gritted teeth, he says, “Goddammit, Emery.”
“And by the way, what you’re getting in return is your entire inheritance, right? All your billions and your lavish lifestyle? You can continue being Mr. Rich Guy and eating salty lobster in the Caribbean and terrifying poor hostesses in the restaurants in all the buildings you own all over the world. So what difference can it possibly make if I say I want you or not?”
“Admit you want to f**k me, and I’ll give you another ten million dollars.”
That stuns me into silence. I gaze up at him in confusion, searching his face. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
The way he’s staring at my mouth is thrilling. His heart beats raggedly against my chest. His breathing is uneven. His hands on either side of my head are hot and trembling, as is the rest of his body.
I realize with a shock like a slap across the face that this isn’t about his ego.
This is about him needing the woman he wants to tell him she feels the same way.
He wants me.
Me, the girl he couldn’t manage to find a better compliment for than that I wasn’t repulsive. Me, the girl who rolls her eyes at him, and laughs at him, and defies him at every turn.
Me. His married-for-convenience wife.
He flexes his hips again, digging his erection into my thigh. My heart pounds impossibly hard. I can’t catch my breath. I know we’re on the verge of doing something incredibly stupid, but I’m not sure I could stop myself if I tried.
He lowers his head to kiss me, but then from inside his suit jacket his cell phone rings.
It’s a creepy electronic version of the nursery rhyme “London Bridge Is Falling Down,” very different from the simple ringtone I heard in the car.
Callum closes his eyes and mutters, “Fuck.”
He rolls off me, sits on the edge of the bed, and takes the call.
He takes the call.
“McCord.” He listens in silence for what seems like a long time. Then he exhales heavily and says, “I’ll be there.”
He disconnects and stares at the wall as I lie crumpled and wet on the bed like a discarded tissue.
Standing, he puts his phone back into his pocket. He cracks his knuckles and smooths his hands down his lapels and over his hair. Then he turns and gazes down at me with distant eyes, his face expressionless.
“I have to go. I’ll be back in a few days. Familiarize yourself with the house while I’m gone. If you need anything, Arlo will assist you.”
Without further explanation, my new husband turns on his heel and walks out.
Fifteen
“W
elcome to married life,” I say in disbelief to the empty room. From somewhere down the corridor, a door slams shut in answer.
Sighing, I sit up and look around.
The suite décor is not at all what I pictured a man like Callum would choose. Spacious and airy, the room is elegant but distinctly feminine, right down to the soft pink-and-green floral pattern on the plush sofas and chairs in the sitting area.
- Writer
