She’s my wife.
I’ve never been so proud. I have yet to tell my father though, and Rose hasn’t told a soul.
Legally we’re married, but as far as everyone else knows, we’re engaged.
She wants it to stay that way.
I open the door for her and she looks at me with exasperation. It's a heavy door and just climbing those stairs took a lot out of me, but I’m not going to just stay in bed everyday until I die. I want to be me. I want to live my life, and that includes opening doors for my wife.
It hurts me that she doesn’t want to tell people. At first I thought she was ashamed. But she’s scared of what they’ll think.
She doesn’t want the will changed either, but she has no fucking choice in that matter. That’s already been done.
The warmth of the building cocoons us as we walk in. The front hall is open and spacious.
The deep red oriental runner placed down along the length of the hall muffles the sound of Rose’s steps as we move from the stone floors to the rug.
She slips her coat easily off her shoulders and I move to take it. She looks up at me with worried eyes.
“It’s only a coat, Rose; I think I can manage.” There’s a hint of admonishment in my tone and she purses her lips. She doesn’t argue though, she doesn’t like to as much now, knowing that I’m not well.
An asymmetric grin pulls to my lips at the thought; that is one benefit of being ill, I suppose.
“Logan,” I hear my father’s rough voice call out to me from the sunroom to our left, before we make it to the welcome desk. I lead Rose, splaying my hand on her back.
The sunroom has several tables and comfortable chairs. The stone fireplace is lit, and the heat feels welcoming.
As we get closer, I notice how my father’s eyes are solely on Rose. She’s walking a bit slower with her hands clasped in front of her.
Anger stirs in my chest.
I didn’t bring her here for him to make her uncomfortable.
I wanted them to meet at least once, just in case, but I won’t let him make her feel unwelcome. She’s my bride, my wife, the love of my life. And he had better realize that and respect it, or we’re going to have problems.
“Mr. Parker,” Rose says in a professional tone I recognize from all of our meetings and presentations. She has an amazing ability to slip into a mask of ease when she’s uncomfortable. I fucking hate it.
“Father, meet my wife, Charlotte Rose.” I introduce them while staring hard into my father’s pale blue eyes. They widen slightly, and his mouth falls open with surprise.
“Wife?” he asks with raised brows. Before I can answer he replies with disbelief, “I never thought I’d live to see the day.” He looks at her stomach before reaching Rose’s eyes.
My face heats with embarrassment. I don’t want him to think I’ve knocked her up, although the thought makes my dick stir in my slacks.
“Fiancé he means,” Rose is quick to reply smoothly, and my father’s eyes dart to her ring finger before he nods his head easily, sitting back in his seat.
He’s confirming her fears and I fucking hate it, although I suppose I can see his position.
“I see my son has been keeping secrets,” he says as he eyes me and then holds out a hand for Rose. “At least he introduced us before you two tied the knot.”
Their handshake is business at best, but Rose seems comforted by the warmer reception.
I take a seat, my body stiff as the anxiety of the two of them getting along grows.
“How did you two meet?” he asks Rose.
She smiles warmly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She looks hesitantly at me and then leans forward and replies, “At a conference a few months ago.”
My father nods, and then a smile suddenly appears at his lips. He raises his hand, pointing at her and nodding his head as he says, “Don’t tell me, you worked for…” he snaps his fingers and my heartbeat picks up. “Armcorp?” he asks.
Rose’s beautiful smile grows across her face as she asks, “He told you?” Her brow furrows, although she looks pleased.
“Not exactly, but I had a feeling.”
I huff a humorless laugh. My father has always struck me as intelligent, but I didn’t think I was so obvious.
I sit back in my chair as the two of them engage in easy conversation.
My leg pains me again, reminding me that I have radiation again tomorrow. One more week, and then we'll see where I stand.
I ignore the pain and smile along with Rose’s story of how I ruined her presentation.
She laughs and pauses to remember the rest of our story. I remember it, though I don't know if I remember it as clearly as Rose.
My father interrupts before she’s able to continue, saying, “I’m proud of you son,” and his voice cracks. He clears his throat and adds, looking back at Rose, “I’m happy for the two of you. I’m happy he found someone to love.”
“Thank you,” Rose says with a soft voice. I can tell she wasn’t expecting it. I wasn’t either.
My father and I exchange a silent nod. My heart is swelling in my chest at his approval. This is what I wanted. I wasn’t sure if he’d understand. But it means the world to me that he does.
Rose nervously clears her throat and picks up from where she left off. Her hands wave in the air as she talks about how she was so nervous to meet her new boss.
My father’s not watching her though, he’s watching me. His eyes are filled with pride and glassy with tears.
I’ve never seen him so emotional before. Not since the day I told him I had cancer, although back then he was in disbelief. Now, his happiness is evident. It brings a warmth to my chest.
I can only hope I live to see the day that she proudly calls me her husband. I unconsciously take her hand in mine and kiss her wrist.
It makes her pause her story and her eyes soften with happiness, although her cheeks flush with a blush of embarrassment.
“I love you,” I tell her easily.
“Logan,” she says shyly, looking between myself and my father.
“Don’t deny me, my Rose.”
I can see her blossom with love shining in her eyes as she whispers, “I love you, too.”
I know she does.
Epilogue
Logan
Remission is a beautiful word.
I’m still on edge most days, thinking the cancer will come back. But it’s been a year and the scans show no visible signs of returning.
“Logan!” I hear Rose’s voice from the other side of the penthouse.
The large doors are open and it lets in a cool breeze. It’s getting late and I should shut them, but I can see the ocean from here and the palm trees are close enough to touch. It’s a beautiful escape from the city, and our first night here. I was nearly asleep on the sofa, lost in work as usual. But it was only for tonight to wrap up a meeting I couldn’t put off. And then no computer. Charlotte’s orders.
I put the laptop on the coffee table, sliding it across the glass and stand up. Stretching out my sore muscles.
I crack my neck and sigh. It was a long ride on the jet. Nearly six hours. I shouldn’t complain, after all, it was a jet, but I fucking hate traveling. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, but I’m not. I’m not sure I ever will be either.
“Logan,” my Rose calls out again.
I take large strides to where her voice came from, the bedroom suite.
She’s standing in front of the dresser, putting away the clothes from her suitcase. I don’t know why she does these things, there’s hired help here to do just that. But she always insists on doing it herself.
She bends down to put away whatever’s in her hand into the bottom drawer. Her pale pink cotton dress slips up her thighs and just barely shows the curves of her ass. I have to suppress a groan of satisfaction. I fucking love that ass. I love every bit of her.
“Yes, my bride?” I ask her as I walk up behind her and wrap my arms around her
waist, pulling her back into my chest. Her lush ass pushes against my cock and it already starts hardening for her. I want her now even more than I did when we first met. I have no plans for that to ever change.
She rolls her eyes and scoffs. “Just because we’re on our honeymoon doesn’t mean I’m your bride.” She lays back in my arms and gives me a sweet smile as her baby blues find mine in the mirror.
I chuckle and hold her closer to me, loving her warmth.
“And whose fault is that?” I ask her. We’ve been married for nearly three months now, legally six, but my Rose insists on ignoring the online certificate. She didn’t even wear the wedding band I picked out for her until we had the real ceremony.
Charlotte was so caught up in her work that she wasn’t ready to take so much time off for a honeymoon. She’s finally got the entire department running smoothly. She’s always been good at what she does, and it makes me damn proud. I hadn’t anticipated her being as much of a workaholic as I am though. Thankfully, we’ve started slowing down and hiring more people so we can do less.
It’s time to enjoy life. I have one worth living, with a partner I want to enjoy.
“I was thinking…” I stare at her reflection in the mirror, but her eyes don’t meet mine. She busies herself with folding a shirt that’s on top of the dresser.
“What were you thinking, my Rose?” I ask gently, planting a small kiss on her neck.
She hums sweetly and leans her head against my shoulder with her eyes closed.
Her small, delicate hands find mine on her waist and she slowly opens her eyes to stare back at me in the mirror. “I was wondering,” her eyes dart down, then back to me, “if we could make this a babymoon?”
My eyebrows raise comically as she says the word I assumed I’d be hearing on this little vacation of ours. Her friend Eva’s recently gotten pregnant. Ever since she announced it, Charlotte has been all about babies and pregnancies.
She’s more than hinted. And I’m taking it seriously.
My brow furrows. …wait.
“A babymoon?” I ask her, “Isn’t that for when you’re already pregnant?”
She nods her head with a twinkle in her eye.
Oh, shit. My grip on her loosens as my mouth opens.
“Oh no!” she says as she bends over slightly with a wide smile. She covers her face as she laughs at me. “No, no, not yet.” She turns in my arms and I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
My heart slams in my chest and I close my eyes to try to calm down.
I guess I’m not quite as ready as I thought I was.
She places her hand on my chest and fiddles with the buttons on my dress shirt.
“I just meant, we could try. We have two full weeks.” She stands on her tiptoes and plants a small kiss on my lips.
I close my eyes, enjoying her touch. I love this woman so damn much.
I live for her. Only for her.
She pulls away slightly and when I open my eyes, she’s looking up at me through her thick lashes with hope.
I grin at her. “I think we can try.”
“Ah!” Her high-pitched shriek makes me close my eyes. She jumps up and down and wraps her arms around my neck, practically swinging.
I laugh and look down at the beautiful smile on her face.
I’ll do everything I can to make her happy. And if that means we’re going to have a baby, then I’ll be the best father I can. Our children will never go without.
“I love you so much, Logan,” she says before kissing me passionately.
I break our kiss, only to tell her what I’ve said every single day since I first confessed it, “I love you, my Rose.”
Thank you for reading!
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Revenge
By Lauren Landish
Katrina
Revenge never tasted so sweet…
The DeLaCoeur family destroyed mine, and ever since I was a little girl, I vowed I would have my revenge.
Now the time has come, and I've waited my whole life for this. The heir to the family fortune is first on my list. Jackson. It should be easy—he's just a billionaire playboy that's used to women falling at his knees. I'll play along, I'll seduce him, and I'll humiliate him. But the second his warm lips burn into my neck, I fear that I might wind up sleeping with the enemy…
Jackson
She pulled my c*ck out in front of the paparazzi... now it's war.
Katrina Grammercy is after me for a crime I didn't commit. She wants to ruin my reputation—make me pay for my father’s sins.
But she doesn't know who she's f*cking with. In this game, I make the rules. She’ll be just like the rest—one taste of me, and she's done.
She wants revenge?
I'll give her revenge, by owning her sweet, tight little ass.
**Revenge is a full-length romance with an HEA, no cheating, and no cliffhanger!
Book 1 - Revenge.
Book 2 - Retaliation.
Book 3 - Retribution.
Chapter 1
Kat
Red. He likes red. I chose this dress carefully, making sure to pick one that would be both classy and slutty at the same time. The fabric is skintight, and I can't wear anything underneath except for a G-string. I can't even wear a bra, and he'll notice for sure. Jackson always notices a woman's breasts. Mine aren't the biggest, but that's okay. He has a thing for nipples, and I've been told mine are perfect.
Next come the silk thigh highs. The dress has a slit that goes almost all the way up my right leg, revealing a lot of thigh. He'll notice the lace top, and the fact that I'm wearing something other than pantyhose will draw his attention. I put less care into selecting the heels I'll be wearing. We'll be in a car for most of what I have planned for him, so they're what I'd consider reasonable. They're just meant to draw attention to my calves, so they're only three inch heels. I like my calves. They're pure muscle, and extremely defined from all the training I do.
Now is the hard part, the wig. I don't want Jackson recognizing who I am at first, so securing my naturally brown hair underneath this platinum blonde wig is vital. I want this hair to look like it really belongs to me. It's why I spent nearly as much money on the wig as I did on the dress, and I've practiced multiple times with the spirit gum to make sure it all looks natural. My eyes... well, blue eyes go with blonde hair all the time, but the false eyelashes I'm wearing can partially hide my eye color for a while. A little bit of makeup will help soften my jawline. I've increased my food intake over the past few days, trying to add a little bit of body fat—at least enough that you can't see my jaw muscles flexing when I chew. I don't give a shit, since I like my body the way it is, but Jackson likes women with a little more meat on their bones. I'm glad at least I keep my hair short, not quite butch short, but it's still considered short for a woman. I don't have time to deal with that shit... I've got other issues to deal with besides worrying about my looks.
Okay. Dress, stockings, shoes by the door, hair... check. As for makeup, I'm going with sultry and dark eye makeup to help my eyes look larger, more doe-eyed. I made sure to spend extra time on my eyeliner, because when I make my big reveal, I want Jackson to know exactly who I am as he stares into my eyes. And I know he remembers my eyes. The lipstick I'm wearing matches my dress, and makes my lips look plump and pouty. Everything I'm wearing practically screams, 'Fuck me, Jackson DeLaCoeur!'.
I look at myself critically in the mirror. The woman staring back at me isn't Katrina Grammercy, the twenty-two-year-old orphan whose parents were ripped from her by a car bomb a decade ago. She isn't the Katrina Grammercy who did nothing but sob for weeks, living in a haze for months. That woman never heard the rumors, never had to learn that her best friend's father, Peter DeLaCoeur, had orchestrated the whole thing. I stare a
t my reflection, and I don't see any traces of the woman who swore vengeance on the DeLaCoeurs, the woman who no longer goes by Katrina, just Kat.
Instead, all I see is exactly what I want Jackson to see. He might have been my best friend ten years ago, but a lot can happen in ten years. The Jack DeLaCoeur I knew is gone. Jackson has followed in his criminal father's footsteps—partying, fucking, and ruining people's lives. While Jackson may not have had anything to do with my parents' death, this is the only way to put my plan in motion. Besides, I'm leaving him alive. That's better than what his father did to my parents.
Thinking about the bombing, the way the fireball rolled across the concrete ceiling and stained the parking garage by the convention center, singeing my hair even though I was fifty feet away, the smell of everything burning... knowing my parents were trapped inside, and I couldn't do anything but watch helplessly...
I shake my head. I can't let the blackness overtake me, not right now. I can't afford it. Before it sinks its eagle claws into my brain again, I go over to my dresser to retrieve a small plastic bottle. This isn't on any medical directory in the world, but this special concoction my herbalist connection makes for me works wonders. It's got GABA, a little THC extract, and some Chinese shit I can't even pronounce. Unscrewing the top of the bottle, I shake out four capsules. They look like rabbit food—little pellets of grass trimmings and yellow pollen sitting in my hand. I down them with a glass of water, then grimace. They taste like rabbit food, too. I lie down on my bed, the cheap springs creaking in complaint despite the fact I only weigh one hundred and twenty-five pounds. The bed's a piece of shit, but it's all the bed I need.
I made sure to leave myself enough time for this next part, and I close my eyes, starting my meditations.
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