“That took some serious apples, Lena,” Chris chimes in from behind us, handing me a glass of champagne as she comes to flank my other side and eyes the dress with enough critique that I squirm.
It’s a running joke between the three of us that, while Lena had fully intended to marry Greg, her original plan had not been so martyr-like. She’d actually only agreed to the engagement as a way to force Taylor into acting on his feelings for her.
When he hadn’t, things had turned sour, and she’d even gone so far as to sign the pre-nup before I’d ruined everything — she’s terribly grateful, by the way.
“Yeah, it really did. For a while there I thought I would really have to give up on him and just get married…”
She looks really guilty while saying this, and I raise a brow. Something’s not right there, and as one of her new best friends I want—
“Anyway!” she says, way too brightly. “Let’s get you down the aisle and continue our ‘Topple Gregory plan,’ shall we!”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes! Of course. I… Chris! Get her into position while I fix the train.”
“I think she had one too many glasses of champagne. If we don’t get going, we’ll have to walk her down the aisle,” Chris giggles, and I stifle one of my own, watching Lena fuss and flutter around me, her head bobbling like a chicken’s.
Goosebumps the size of cannonballs erupt all over my body when the wedding march starts and the doors are thrown open, revealing the crammed church and the not-so-welcoming stares directed my way.
“Jesus help us, they look like they’ve been sucking on lemons,” Chris hisses, and I swallow nervously, pasting on a smile that makes my cheeks ache.
“Don’t worry, they can’t get to you with him in front of you,” Lena mutters through an equally fake smile. “Just keep smiling!” they hiss, grabbing my arms in a death grip.
Oh God…
I start walking, both of them keeping pace with me just as they’d promised, and ignore the hostility directed my way, choosing instead to focus on my groom and the brilliant intensity filling his gaze.
It makes me want to laugh when I see his eyes flit almost reluctantly to my dress, before winging back up with a glorious smile that lights his face so brightly I feel the heat all the way to my toes.
“Looks like the dress is a go,” Chris mutters, and I giggle all the way, only stopping when his hand takes mine and he leads me the rest of the way to the alter.
I’m shaking with nerves as I look up at him, and it takes an iron will not to turn and bolt as far and fast as my legs and heels will allow.
“Breathe, darlin’,” he growls, rubbing soothingly at the skin on my wrist.
I do as he says, and feel the lightheaded panic dissolve as he stops and turns my way, his steady gaze fixed on me and only me.
This is it, I think, as the preacher clears his throat and starts in a solemn voice. If you do this, you’re trapped. He’ll never let you go now.
“Dearly beloved…”
By the time we’ve said our “I do’s” and exchanged rings, I feel almost floaty with the magnitude of what I’ve done. When the man asked me whether I take Greg as my husband, I’d had a second of panicked misgiving and actually eyed the door out of the corner of my eye.
Of course the oaf had seen that and clamped a hand over my right hip, smiling so victoriously, I swallowed and tittered through my vows. Give me a break: of course I’m a little doubtful. I have to marry his whole stinking family too, and with the heat at my back it’s a wonder I haven’t burst into flames yet.
The kiss made the whole ordeal worth it, though. I laughed into his mouth when he grabbed me up and planted a kiss on me that made my toes curl.
While the muttering, whispers, and throat-clearing echoed around us.
Now we’re sitting in the car, headed for a jet that’s taking us I don’t know where, and I am officially married to Gregory Lucas, control freak extraordinaire.
“Your family is…” I blow out a harsh breath and wince just thinking of Chris’s glare and Nana’s fighting stance when we left the hotel.
“Not great, I know. I told you I didn’t want them there,” he says, and I shrug guiltily.
He was right, damn his hide. They really are…something else. I’d spent the reception dodging his mother and sister after the last time they cornered me at the buffet.
Thank God Lena had sidled up and stolen me away for a photo op that hadn’t been real, or I would have ended up drowning them both in the punch.
“You were right. And, though I hesitate to say anything…I’m really glad we live so far away.”
I can’t even imagine spending Thanksgiving or Christmas with those people. Give me a crazy, bread-roll-stealing old bird any day of the week, over a bunch of ceiling sniffers.
Greg snorts and continues to stare out at the landscape, and I shift, uncomfortably aware of his stillness since he’d planted that sloppy kiss on me at the altar.
We’d been separated for almost the entire reception, and it’s been a little cool since we got in the car.
Needless to say, I’m a little shaky now, and the thought of needling him — as per plans ala Lena — is a little daunting. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy pushing his buttons, boy do I, but I am so used to an arguing, demanding, sexually overwhelming Greg that the silence leaves me somewhat unsure of what to do next.
“Greg? I—”
“Not now. I’m still too pissed to talk to you right now,” he growls, cutting me off with a slice of his hand. “I had to spend my wedding reception keeping my family away from you, so just give me a minute to get over it before you start blabbering.”
Blabbering!
“For your information, you did a crappy job. Your mother and sister cornered me at the buffet, and I had to keep Chris from body tackling one of them before Lena saved the day!”
The ridiculousness of it all hits me, and I start giggling despite his scowl, feeling the tension drain out of me when he smiles reluctantly and takes my hand, running his thumb over my wedding ring and the sapphire engagement ring he won’t let me remove. Ever.
“Why are they so…?”
He shrugs and drops my hand, turning away again.
“They’ve never been happy with my choices. Even Lena wasn’t what they would call a suitable match, but at least she would have brought her family’s business connections to the table.”
And I bring nothing but a senile old lady and my working class roots. Got it. Well, now I feel like crap, and I say so, deciding that, as per the honesty deal I’ve made with Lena, I will tell him exactly how I feel at all times.
He says nothing, the exact opposite of what I’d expected, and I turn away too, closing my eyes against the misery that’s starting to set in. Great way to start a honeymoon.
Chapter Thirty One
I’ve spent my honeymoon sitting on the deck of the Orpheus, one of the three revamped ocean liners that I’d helped bring to life in the ad campaign that had started this all.
At night I enjoy what most would call the best part of marriage and make love with my husband into the wee hours of the morning. The passion we share, instead of fizzling, has only grown stronger, to the point that I find myself mooning over him while he works.
Hence my self-banishment to the deck off the luxury suite we inhabit. I absolutely refuse to spend my time gazing at him like a lovesick fool while he ignores me and keeps giving me hints to leave him in peace.
This morning I’d pranced out of the bathroom, freshly showered and clad in a hot pink bikini small enough to leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. He’d taken one look at me and then gone all stony-eyed before turning back to his laptop and ignoring me completely.
The satellite phone beside me chirps, and I look at it for a beat before answering.
“Hello?”
“God! You sound miserable! What the hell are you doing on this honeymoon?” Lena demands.
I’m so pathetical
ly grateful to hear her voice my eyes mist, and I catch back a choked sob.
“Nothing! I spend all day keeping myself entertained while he works, and then all we do is have sex at night. I swear, Lena, if he keeps this up I am so getting an annulment when we hit New York,” I hiss in a whisper, glimpsing back at Gregory with a guilty scowl.
“I told you not to let him work!” she yells, and I pull the phone back to save myself from a lifetime of ear trouble. She’s worse than a dictator — I snort again and smile guiltily when my very own dictator glances up and locks eyes with me.
“Oh God, trust him to stop working when I don’t want him paying attention,” I groan, sliding off the lounger to walk a few feet away.
“Han.”
“Seriously, this is not my fault. Yesterday I pranced around naked for ten minutes pretending I couldn’t find my bikini. This morning I came out of the bathroom wearing the thing, and I ate breakfast that way. He didn’t even bat an eye!”
How demoralizing to know the sheen has worn off so quickly I could spread eagle myself, butt naked, and he’d still be unaffected.
“Not even a look?” she breathes.
“Nope.”
“A blink?”
“Like a goddamned statue. I swear, I was more turned on by me than he was,” I growl. “But I couldn’t help it. I got a look at my tan in the mirror, and it looks great. I didn’t even know I could go this shade of golden—”
“Han, focus! This is a major setback. You can’t keep him off balance if he isn’t paying attention.”
Yeah, tell me about it.
“Look, I’m just going to spend the last seven days reading or something, and then I’ll revisit and revise, okay? I’m tired of throwing myself at him. It’s getting goddamned embarrassing. I got more heat from the swimming instructor this morning, and she’s a woman!”
That had been really awkward, because despite loving my husband, that woman is really hot. Like, Cindy Crawford hot, and I’m only human. I have eyes. And I’m feeling a little vulnerable, so turning her down had gone against the newly awakened needy side of me.
“You got hit on by a woman! Really?” she squeals, and I practically see her salivate. “What was that like?”
“I dunno, like seeing the brand of lollipops you like but being offered strawberry, which is still good, but nowhere near as yummy as cherry.”
God, what am I saying? Am I really describing girl-on-girl flirting by using lollipop references? I’m pathetic.
Lena giggles, and I realize she’s trying to distract me long enough to pull me from the doldrums. Clever girl. I start giggling too, and soon I feel better enough to consider my options, misery-free.
“Thanks for that. I was getting ready to fling myself into the ocean, and at the speed this tub is going I’d be chum. So, what should I do?”
“Hmm, ever had a massage?” she asks, throwing me for a sec.
“Huh? Yeah, once. This tiny Korean woman went Bruce Lee on my ass. I couldn’t sit without crying for three days. What do they eat? Spinach?”
She laughs a little before hmm-ing some more.
“The cruise offers in-room massage to the guests, right?”
“I think so.”
“Then here’s what you do.”
***
I know what heaven feels like. It’s strong, capable hands sliding over your skin in an oily glide that pulls the tension out of your muscles a finger stroke at a time.
After Lena’s call I’d gone back inside and ordered a massage, fully intending to strip down in the presence of my husband and make him watch while a buff, extremely sexy but gay man runs his hands all over me.
When I’d come back out of the bedroom, he’d been gone, along with his laptop and my last drop of ego. I’d intended to cancel and sit on the deck, fuming for a couple of hours, when there’d been a knock and Fabio’s twin brother Gorgeous had walked in, crowing about how toned and fabulous I am.
So sue me, I need a little boost right now, and if it takes a gay hunk running his hands all over me to get me there, I am so there.
“You have amazing skin, Han. So smooth and silky,” he croons, hitting a particularly tender spot on my upper thigh.
“God, do that again and I’ll give you anything you want, hot stuff,” I groan, pushing into his strong hands.
Bliss, bliss, bli—
“Get your goddamned hands off my wife!”
I rear up to see Greg stalking our way, his fists clenched at his sides, with a look so murderous I flinch before indulging in a silent fist pump. It’s not until I realize his intent that I swing up, truly afraid for poor Gorgeous.
“Greg, stop!” I yell as he grabs the frightened behemoth by the collar and tenses. “He’s just the masseuse! And he’s gay!”
I’m up and off the table by this time and hanging onto his right arm for dear life when he freezes and glances down, his eyes going molten.
“Cover yourself.”
I look down and gasp, diving for the towel on the table, my cheeks heating so quickly my hair fizzles.
“Sir, I—”
“Get your shit and get out.”
I watch as poor Gorgeous scrambles for his kit, not even folding the table down properly before running from the suite so fast I see streaks of smoke funnel out behind him.
That leaves me alone with Greg, and I cringe before peeking up at him fearfully. His eyes…I have to look away they hold so much rage, and at the moment it’s all directed squarely at moi.
I want to run and hide and hope he calms down enough tha—
Wait a minute! It worked!
“Do you want to tell me why another man had his hands all over my property?” he asks so quietly I quail at the violence inherent in his voice.
I’m happy I’ve managed to shake him a little, but I’d never expected this level of anger, and now that I’m faced with it I’m at a loss as to how to respond.
Till I realize what he’s just called me. Property? Did he just say property?
“Run that by me one last time,” I say in a voice so brittle I see his eyes stretch the tiniest bit. “Did you just call me your property?”
His eyes go hard, and I realize whatever advantage I thought I had is so not on the cards. I’m pissed, but he’s…volcanic.
“He had his fucking hands a hair’s breadth away from your—”
“He’s gay!”
“No. He. Isn’t.”
Oh God, then I shouldn’t tell him I’d dropped my bikini right there and revealed everything in God’s glory as I’d inelegantly hoisted myself up onto the table.
I cringe slightly and promise never, ever to mention that unless I don’t want to sit for a week.
“Uh…”
“Why did that man have his hands all over you?” he asks, stalking closer.
I’m a little wiser nowadays, so I take a step back, clutching the towel closer to my chest.
“I was getting a massage?” I ask in a small voice.
He stalks closer, eyeing my towel with a glare that strips the flesh from my bones.
“Did you enjoy it?” he asks silkily, coming closer as I retreat, his face so hard I swallow.
“Um, yes?”
Well I’m already in deep shit, so what’s the use of lying at this point? Anyway, I rather suspect he heard me calling the not-so-gay masseuse hot stuff. My goose is already cooked.
His eyes burn brighter, and I see his eyes tic as his muscles coil. Oh crap. I lunge left and make a break for the bedroom, intending to hide out in the bathroom till he cools down.
I’m in front of the bed and diving for the bathroom door when I feel a freight train hit me from behind, sending me sprawling face down into the mattress with Goliath resting on my back.
“Tell me again how much you liked it,” he snarls, pushing me down and pulling my hands up to lock above my head.
“Hmmm fohee,” I mumble, gasping into the sheets.
He levers up enough that I can turn my head and g
ulp in a breath, his hot breath fanning the skin at my cheek.
“Again.”
“I’m sorry! I didn’t know he wasn’t gay! No straight guy has that much style. He was wearing a scarf!”
His body tenses above mine, and I scream as he rips the towel from me and settles back over me, grinding himself into my butt. He’s angry and aroused, and I have no doubt he’s about to show me exactly why he calls me his property.
Yay!
“You want a man’s hands all over your skin, you come to me,” he growls, clamping one hand around my wrists to free up a hand. That hand skates down my back and wiggles between our bodies, coming to rest at exactly the spot the masseuse had been rubbing earlier.
Strange how I hadn’t felt the proximity before, but now that it’s his hand I feel my core clench, moistening for him, begging him to shift up just an inch closer.
I grit my teeth, unwilling to cede this round just to get his hands on my sex. Sure I want him. Sure I’m desperate for all the passion I feel simmering off him, but I want more than sex and ownership. I want him, loving me back, and the only way I’ll get it is if I push him to the point of no control.
“I wouldn’t want to disturb your precious schedule. Let me up, and I’ll go sit in the corner like a good little asset until you’re ready for me,” I say sweetly, taunting him by shoving my butt up and wiggling out from under him as much as I can.
I get exactly one leg free before he’s back on me, his mouth so close to my ear.
“You’re feeling neglected, darlin’?” he purrs.
His tongue flicks at my earlobe, and he gently bites down on it, sending shivers through me.
“Greg, please.”
The hand on my thigh shifts up, and I feel him between my legs, his fingers delving, rubbing at my clit.
“Who do you belong to?” he purrs, rubbing at me till I’m on the edge before stopping to demand again. “Who do you belong to, Hannah?”
“You,” I gasp, trying to push closer, needing that touch, the closeness I feel when he’s like this, even though I can still feel his anger.
“Louder, darlin’,” he growls, sliding his hand lower to thrust a finger deep into my core.
JACE (Lane Brothers Book 3) Page 47
