24
1049 Words
He studies me for a long moment, his eyes fierce. Then he murmurs, “The contract will have no mention of sex.”
I try to parse that out to make sense of it but fail. “So you’re saying we won’t have s*x?”
“I’m saying it won’t be in the contract.”
“Yeah, I heard that part, but what I mean is—”
“Do you want to have s*x with me?” he interrupts.
My heart skips several beats. A rush of heat burns my cheeks. Then my mind unhelpfully provides me with a searing image of me n***d, writhing, and crying out underneath him as he f***s me into next week.
Don’t you dare break eye contact with him, you wuss!
I say airily, “Honestly, I haven’t thought about it.”
He studies my expression thoughtfully. Then his gaze turns amused.
“I’m serious,” I insist, flustered. “It’s not something that’s been top of mind lately, what with all the fires I’m trying to put out in my personal life.”
Eyes sparkling, he tips his head back and looks at me down his nose. “Hmm.”
God, the smug is strong with this one.
“Listen, I’m sure you think you’re all that, but you’re really not my type.”
“Oh? What is your type, exactly?”
He’s mocking me. It’s in his tone, his smirk, his body language. I go from uncomfortable to royally enraged and glare at him.
“Men who don’t have resting rich face, for starters.”
“Resting rich face?”
“The arrogant, entitled, contemptuous look certain wealthy people wear. That expression of exaggerated self-importance you have when you’re going around being billionare-y all over the place and sneering at the common folk like me.”
His eyes darken, and so does his energy. He gazes at me in silence for a moment, then says, “You’re anything but common. And I’d never sneer at you, Emery. Never at you.”
I was ready to throw my wine in his face, but now he’s disarmed me. I stare at him, feeling frustrated, helpless, and confused.
“If I ask you something, will you be honest with me?”
“Yes.”
His answer is quick and unequivocal. It gives me the little boost of confidence I need to continue. “Are you for real? Is this arrangement you’re proposing legit?”
“Yes.”
Again, his answer is firm. He maintains eye contact as he speaks. He doesn’t blink, flinch, or make some strange twitch that I could pounce on with an Ah-ha! He simply looks like a man telling the truth.
I guzzle the rest of my wine, then clutch the empty glass in my lap and hope he doesn’t notice how hard my hands are shaking.
“What else? Ask me anything,” he says softly, still gazing into my eyes.
His voice is hypnotic. His eyes are mesmerizing. The scent of his skin intoxicates me. Or maybe that’s the wine, but everything about this man seems designed to draw a woman in close. His face and body lay the trap, but it’s his eyes that are the real snare.
The heat of his gaze is a velvet dark enticement that promises anything and everything and is both arousing and terrifying at once.
He's a force field, a powerful dark star slowly drawing me into his orbit and keeping me there with nothing but the sheer strength of his gravitational pull.
He says my name so quietly, it’s barely a whisper. A tender, intimate whisper, the way a lover would say it close to my ear as he pushes inside me.
Which, of course, makes me completely fall apart.
I blurt, “I was just thinking about planets and gravity while having a little meltdown, will you please excuse me, I have to get more wine.”
I jolt to my feet. Callum reaches out and takes my wrist. He pulls me back down into the chair and holds me there, gazing into my eyes with burning intensity.
He says, “I need you sober for this.”
“Then maybe we should talk tomorrow, like I wanted to. Because right now, I’d like to get drunk.”
“You shouldn’t deal with stress by getting drunk.”
“It’s been working fine for me so far.”
“No, it hasn’t.”
I close my eyes, draw a deep breath, then exhale. Then I open my eyes and look at him. “You’re right. It hasn’t. But that’s really none of your business.”
“Everything about you is my business.”
“Since when?”
“Since you’re going to be my wife.”
Those words ringing in my ears, I sit there with my heart in my throat.
As if sensing I’m on the verge of total mental collapse, Callum releases my wrist, leans back in his chair, and takes a sip of whiskey. He thinks for a moment, then begins to talk in a low, soothing voice.
“I understand this is strange. If I were in your shoes, I’d be skeptical too. But my offer is real. The night I overheard you with your employees at Jameson’s, I was having dinner with a woman I didn’t like. She’s a model, and very beautiful, and so self-centered and shallow, it physically hurt me to listen to her speak. Normally, I’d never date someone like that. But knowing the situation with my inheritance, my attorney suggested I meet Alexandra, a friend of his wife’s. If you’re wondering why I need my attorney to set me up on dates, the reason is that I find it difficult…very difficult to connect with most people, mainly because I detest small talk.”
“And you’re impatient and overbearing.”
He glances up at me. I mutter, “Sorry,” and chew on the inside of my lip.
After a moment, he nods. “You’re correct. I’m both those things.”
Surprised he’s agreeing with me, I then start to feel like a jerk for pointing out his faults. “I mean, nobody’s perfect.”
He murmurs, “Almost nobody.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
- Writer
