Dumping Scumbag Boyfriend For Mr Moore

Addictive Touch

Sarah woke up slowly with her cheek on Nathan's chest, his arms locked on her waist.

For a long, blissful moment, sarah woke up, but she didn't move.

She simply lay there, eyes closed, letting herself exist in this strange reality.

Her body ached in places she hadn't known could ache, a pleasant soreness that brought back flashes of the night before.

His hands. His mouth. The way he had whispered her name like a prayer.

Husband.

Her cheeks flushed at the memory of how many times she had said that word. How easily it had fallen from her lips. How right it had felt.

Behind her, Nathan stirred.

His arm tightened around her waist, pulling her back against the hard planes of his chest. His lips found the curve of her bare shoulder, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to her skin.

"Good morning, Mrs. Moore."

His voice was rough with sleep—deep and gravelly in a way that sent an involuntary shiver down her spine. Sarah felt her body respond instantly, traitorously. Her n*****s tightened. Her thighs pressed together. A fresh wave of heat pooled low in her belly.

"You're going to wear that word out," she murmured, her voice embarrassingly breathy.

"Never." Nathan's hand slid from her waist to her hip, his fingers tracing lazy circles against her skin. "I've waited too long to say it."

Sarah twisted in his arms, turning to face him. The movement pressed her bare chest against his, and she felt him harden instantly against her thigh.

Already?

Nathan's dark eyes gleamed with amusement. "Problem?"

"You're insatiable."

"I'm yours." He leaned forward, his nose brushing hers. "There's a difference."

Before she could respond, his phone buzzed violently on the nightstand.

Nathan's expression flickered—a brief flash of irritation—before he reached over her to grab it. Sarah watched his face as he read the screen.

His jaw tightened.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Nothing." Nathan tossed the phone back onto the nightstand. "Ignore it."

The phone buzzed again. Then again. Then again in rapid succession.

Sarah pushed herself up onto her elbow, the sheet slipping dangerously low on her chest. "Nathan, who is it?"

He was quiet for a moment. Then he exhaled slowly, his hand coming up to rub the bridge of his nose.

"My father."

Sarah's blood ran cold.

"Lord Moore?" She had heard the title whispered in the registry office, seen it in the official documents. But the reality of Nathan's family—his powerful, prestigious, terrifying family—hadn't fully sunk in until this moment.

"He's... upset," Nathan said carefully.

"Upset?" Sarah's voice rose. "About what? The marriage? Me? The fact that you married a complete stranger without consulting him?"

"All of the above." Nathan's hand found hers under the sheets, squeezing gently. "But mostly the last one. He doesn't like surprises. And I've just delivered a rather large one."

The phone buzzed again. Nathan ignored it.

"Nathan..." Sarah bit her lip. "Maybe you should answer. Maybe he'll—"

"No." Nathan's voice was firm. "I'll deal with him. Today. Right now, I need to deal with something more important."

"And what's that?"

"You." He leaned down, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I need to feed you, first. And then... we need to talk about what comes next."

───

An hour later, Sarah sat at the massive marble dining table, wrapped in a silk robe that probably cost more than her monthly rent.

A chef—a personal chef, because of course Nathan had one—had prepared an elaborate breakfast spread: fresh fruit, flaky pastries, eggs benedict, and what looked like handmade yogurt parfaits.

Sarah stared at the food without touching it.

Her stomach was in knots.

Nathan sat across from her, scrolling through his phone with a grim expression. He had dressed in a crisp white shirt and dark trousers, his sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms. He looked composed. Controlled.

But Sarah could see the tension in his jaw. The way his thumb kept tapping against the table.

"Just tell me," she said finally. "How bad is it?"

Nathan looked up. "Bad enough."

"That's not an answer."

He set his phone down, fixing her with a steady gaze. "My father is... traditional. He believes in certain standards. Certain expectations. When I tell him I've married without his approval, without a prenuptial agreement, without even a formal introduction, he's going to be furious."

Sarah's throat tightened. "And then what?"

"And then he'll want to meet you." Nathan's expression softened slightly. "He'll want to assess you. Judge you. Determine whether you're worthy of the Moore name."

"No pressure," Sarah muttered.

"Sarah." Nathan reached across the table, taking her hand. "You are more than worthy. You're brilliant, you're strong, and you're mine. He'll see that. He has to."

"And if he doesn't?"

Nathan's eyes hardened. "Then he'll learn to live with disappointment."

The phone buzzed again.

Nathan glanced at it, and this time, something flickered across his face—a shadow of something darker than irritation. Something that looked almost like... resignation.

"I have to take this," he said, rising. "Excuse me."

He walked toward the study, phone pressed to his ear. Sarah watched him go, her heart pounding.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Sarah sat alone at the massive table, surrounded by untouched food and the weight of everything that had happened in the last seventy-two hours. She had been betrayed. Humiliated. Sold. She had escaped. She had married a stranger. She had given herself to him completely.

And now she was about to face his family.

What have I gotten myself into?

She pushed back from the table and walked to the windows. The ocean stretched endlessly before her, calm and beautiful and utterly indifferent to her problems.

Through the study door, she could hear Nathan's low controlled voice.

"No, Father. That's not going to happen."

"I don't care about your expectations. I don't care about the Wentworths. I don't care about the shareholders."

Another pause. Longer this time.

"Because I made a choice. And I'm not going to apologize for it."

Sarah's breath caught.

"You want to meet her? Fine. We'll come to dinner. But let me make one thing clear—she is my wife. My chosen wife. And if anyone—anyone—treats her with anything less than respect, I will walk out. And I will take my shares with me."

The threat hung in the air, even through the closed door.

Sarah pressed her hand to her chest, her heart hammering.

He's defending me. He's actually defending me.

A few minutes later, the study door opened, and Nathan emerged.

His expression was unreadable.

"Well," he said, "we've been invited to dinner."

Sarah swallowed hard. "At the Moore estate?"

"Tomorrow night." Nathan walked toward her, stopping just inches away. "My mother will be there. My brother. And my father, of course."

"And Sophie?"

Nathan's jaw tightened. "Sophie is... a complication. She was the woman my father wanted me to marry. She's been a family friend for years. She'll likely be there."

Sarah's stomach churned. "Great."

"Sarah." Nathan cupped her face in his hands, tilting her chin up to meet his eyes. "You have nothing to fear. Not from my father. Not from my mother. Not from Sophie. You are my wife. And I will protect you."

"How?" Sarah whispered. "How can you protect me from an entire family that doesn't want me?"

Nathan's eyes burned.

"I'll burn their world down if I have to."

The words should have scared her. Instead, they sent a shiver down her spine—not of fear, but of something else. Something dangerous and warm.

"Now," Nathan continued, his voice softening, "you need to eat. You need to rest. And then... we need to prepare."

"Prepare for what?"

Nathan's lips curved into a smirk. "For the performance of a lifetime."