by Kati Wilde
Pain constricts my heart and I shake my head.
A dangerous light enters his eyes as he examines the scars again. They’re old, a little paler and shinier than the surrounding skin, and not very noticeable except for the difference in texture. But no one else ever touches me. “They look kind of like the burn marks you get after brushing up against a hot exhaust pipe.”
I yank my arm away and sit up. He lets me go but I can still feel his gaze on me.
His voice is sharpened steel. “Were those from an accident or did someone do that to you?”
I can’t lie. And I can’t give him my usual stare because I can’t even meet his eyes.
His tone softens. “Who did this to you, baby?”
Averting my face, I reach for my sweater and pull it on, covering the marks. But I feel as if I should tell him something.
My throat feels hot and tight as I say, “I don’t talk about it.”
A muscle works in his jaw. Then he nods. “I won’t mention it again.”
Relief at his easy acceptance loosens the obstruction in my throat. Hesitantly I suggest, “Should we go down and eat?”
“I already did,” he replies with an exaggerated leer—and when I laugh, he kisses me and kisses me and kisses me before swinging me up into his arms. His voice is like crushed gravel when he adds, “Now I’ll take care of you.”
8
Caleb
I begin counting down the days to the wedding like a kid waiting for Christmas. Except no kid ever wanted anything as much as I want Audrey Clarke.
After that first night at her house, I use her pussy like my own personal Advent calendar, opening up those thighs every day and finding a sweet treat to eat. And that’s all I do. By some miracle, I keep my goddamn pants on. I like to think it’s willpower, but I don’t have much where Audrey is concerned. More likely it’s cowardice, because I don’t trust myself enough to sleep in her bed—so every night after making her come on my tongue, I return home and remove myself from temptation.
Or it’s fear that keeps my pants on. Terror that I’ll lose her. That she’ll decide wanting me isn’t reason enough to marry me. So I hold out on the desperate hope that if she begins wavering, sexual need will see her through the wedding.
But she hasn’t wavered yet. And now there’s only three days left. Three more days until she’s completely mine—not just because I’ll finally bury my cock deep inside her, but because she’ll be wearing my ring.
Not long to wait. And she probably won’t change her mind now. But I’ll feel a lot more secure when I’ve got her locked down. Today I take one step closer to that—by signing the marriage contract.
I arrive at the law firm’s building before Audrey does and wait in the lobby for her. She strides through the entrance a few minutes later, her blonde hair sprinkled with snowflakes, her red lips curving into a smile the moment she spots me.
“Ready for this?” she greets me, her icy eyes sparkling.
“More than ready.”
I hold out my hand and she takes it without hesitation. Just like she always does. Ever since she mentioned that she doesn’t like being touched, I’ve paid a lot more attention to when she does touch anyone—and when she doesn’t. Like when we went out to dinner with Cole and Mia a few days ago. Audrey obviously adores the other woman. Yet all the hugs of greeting and casual, affectionate touches I often see between female friends were absent. Also absent are all the casual touches with me. She’ll take my hand as we’re walking or standing together, but unless we’re alone and focused on each other, she won’t reach out and touch me. As if there’s nothing at all casual about the way she touches anyone—it’s all deliberate. Maybe even an effort. And whenever she’s the recipient of an absent touch, even if it’s just someone lightly brushing her arm to get her attention, she stiffens up.
Yet she never stiffens up when I touch her. And I figure it relates back to what she told me once about having a context for personal interactions. I’m her fiancée, and she wants me. So me touching her is all part of that. But it’s still not easy for her to reciprocate those touches unless we’re in a clearly intimate situation—such as standing close to each other in the kitchen. Or snuggled up together on her big sofa and watching a football game. Or while I’m making her come in her bed.
Or in an elevator. Because we still don’t kiss hello. I kiss her for better reasons.
As soon as the doors close, I tilt her chin up and tell her, “I’m kissing you now because I can’t fucking wait to call you my wife.”
That happy smile curves her mouth again just before I claim her lips, pulling her body tight against mine. She moans softly and her fingers tangle in my hair as she hungrily returns the kiss. Only the chime of the floor indicator reminds me to let her go—and if I’ve got red lipstick smeared all over my mouth now, so be it. Everyone at the law firm of Sullivan & Ellis already knows I’m hers.
She takes my hand again as we exit the elevator. “I told them you’re on your lunch break and we need to move through this as quickly as possible. Are you all set for next week?”
For our honeymoon. A full week spent between her thighs, if I have anything to say about it.
“All set.” My boss gave me the time off for the wedding and honeymoon, but only after I persuaded the other mechanics to cover my shifts those days. Luckily I possess something valuable to barter with. As lead mechanic, I’ve got a coveted schedule that gives me weekends off…but I won’t be seeing those weekends for a while. I ended up trading schedules with the other employees for three months out, starting with the weekend before Christmas—which starts tomorrow. “I’ll be working this Saturday and Sunday, though.”
“I will be, too,” she says lightly and I laugh before lifting her hand to my mouth and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. Audrey works every weekend, according to her assistants. Maybe that’ll change up after we’re married, but if it doesn’t…well, I keep pretty busy on weekends, too, usually working on my current restoration project. I don’t expect Audrey to sit on her ass while I’m messing around in the garage.
Maybe we’ll just shorten those working hours on the weekends, though. Staying a little later in bed in the mornings. Coming home early in the afternoon.
“What did you think about the Wyndhams’ dinner invitation?” she asks as we enter the law firm’s spacious reception area, which resembles one of those rooms you see in movies about rich people in England. “Do you want to accept?”
An invitation that came this morning…for an event scheduled tonight. A celebratory dinner to congratulate us on our engagement, supposedly. “It was damn short notice, wasn’t it?”
“It was.”
“And you have your company Christmas party tonight, don’t you?” I know she does, because this was going to be the first night in a week that we wouldn’t spend the evening together. I’m tempted to accept the Wyndhams’ invitation just to have a little time with Audrey.
“Yes, but the Christmas party always goes on until midnight or later. I could leave it for a few hours. But you intended to meet up with your friends at Murphy’s tonight?”
Which, knowing Patrick, will turn into a stag party for me. “The dinner’s early enough that I could still do that afterward. I’m just wondering what the hell they’re playing at.”
“I might be able to shed some light on that, Mr. Moore.” It isn’t Audrey who answers. Instead it’s the man who’s waiting for us—who also looks like he might have come out of a movie about rich people in England, though his accent places him closer to home. He gives my hand a firm shake. “Bradford Sullivan.”
Audrey’s lawyer. “Caleb Moore,” I respond. “Shed what light?”
He gestures for us to walk with him and says, “We’ve argued that only the estate’s executor should have access to Eleanor Wyndham’s assets while the will is in dispute. The probate judge agreed. So the Wyndhams received a notice to vacate the mansion within two weeks.”
“They’ve been kicked ou
t?” This was already a good day, but now it’s even better.
“Essentially.” Bradford opens the door to a conference room. “So I suspect the dinner invitation is an olive branch that they are extending out of sheer panic.”
“Because they assumed they’d win this case, yet one of the first motions filed resulted in their eviction,” Audrey says and glances at me. “Do you want to accept that olive branch?”
“Fuck no. But I’ll go to the dinner.”
Her pale eyes glitter with amusement. “For spite?”
“Pretty much.” And because I’ve never even met these assholes. I should probably get a look at who I’m dealing with. “We might as well let them know where they stand. Maybe give them a U-Haul brochure.”
“I like your style, Mr. Moore,” Bradford says, then introduces me to a man who is his blond clone. “Our senior partner, Nathan Ellis. Typically, we’d ask that you bring your own attorney to advise you, but we understand that time is short and you’ve had difficulty finding competent representation. So Audrey requested that Nathan and his team act as your unofficial representatives in this matter. They’ve already asked for several revisions to this premarital agreement on your behalf, and after a week of back-and-forth, this is what we’ve arrived at for today—so please consult with Nathan if you have any questions or concerns. The agreement itself is based on your original proposal to Audrey.”
I don’t really give a shit what it is, as long as she marries me. I take a seat at the conference table with Audrey and her lawyer sitting across from me, then begin reading through the contract. And, yeah. It’s damn similar to my proposal, but a hell of a lot more comprehensive. I skim over the long sections about her paying the legal fees and the sale of the mansion. The only new section is the part she added after a conversation we had about protection and birth control, the same conversation that had me heading in to the health clinic last weekend. And the lawyers are damn thorough here, too. She’ll continue with the pill that she’s already taking, and we’ll use condoms if needed, with changes to be made at our discretion and by mutual agreement. Copies of our clean test results are even included in the—
Snap.
My head jerks up. Across the table, Audrey’s icy gaze is focused on the contract in front of me. But I don’t see what about it is distracting her. “Audrey?”
Her eyes meet mine and a little smile plays around her lips. She glances at the lawyer sitting beside her, then pulls out her phone. I look at mine when the text comes in.
Audrey: Every time you turn the page, you lick your thumb the same way you tease my clit.
Oh fuck. Instantly I’m too damn aware of the fit of my jeans. I shove the phone back into my pocket—and I don’t even know if I’ve finished reading this page. But I don’t give a shit. I lick my thumb and turn to the next.
A sharp snap! follows while I grin like a motherfucker. I glance up again when I hear her move. Her smile is a full curve now, but she’s rising from her chair, turning toward the windows overlooking the city, her arms crossed beneath her breasts. Suddenly I’m tossed headlong into the memory of the first time we met. Sitting across from each other—not at a table, but at her desk. Where she did the same damn thing. Snapped that rubber band while looking at me. Then got up and looked out the window.
At the time I thought she was cold, distant. But now I know better. She’s standing over there with her pussy as hot as my dick is hard.
And it was hot when she accepted my proposal, too.
Her hands rub up and down her sleeves, and my grin fades. That’s another thing I’ve paid attention to this past week. Maybe she always wears long sleeves because it’s winter. Or maybe it’s habit from a time when her scars were a lot more visible than they are now. But whatever the reason for the sleeves, I’ve also noticed there are only two things she doesn’t talk about: those old burns on her arm, and her parents. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that they’re connected.
Someday, I really fucking hope to meet them. Not so I can do or say anything to them, because I’ve got a feeling Audrey wouldn’t like it. But for the same reason I’ll be seeing the Wyndhams tonight—I’d like to put faces to the people I hate.
I look down at the contract again, my stomach tightening as I realize this page starts the section regarding the dissolution of our marriage.
This is all straight out of my proposal, too. At least the first part is, where it says that as soon as probate is granted and Eleanor’s estate passes into my possession, the marriage agreement will be considered complete and divorce proceedings can begin without either party being in breach of contract.
There’s some other shit about infidelity voiding the agreement but I’m never going to cheat on her. I keep going back to that bit about divorce proceedings beginning after I receive the inheritance.
With acid eating away at my gut, I glance at Nathan Ellis. “How long do you figure it’ll be before this thing with the Wyndhams is settled?”
“We estimate between six to twenty-four months.”
Two years with her. Maybe.
Because this was based off my proposal. I told Audrey at the beginning this marriage would only be temporary. But that was before I got to know her. Before I kissed her and tasted her.
Is this what she wants, too?
I look to Audrey, who’s still standing at the window. “Did you read this thing?”
“Yes.” She faces me again, her expression unreadable. “Several times. I had to approve each revision.”
Each revision. But if this was based off my proposal, this part was in here since the first draft.
And she approved it each time.
A thick knot fills up my chest as I start skimming the rest. Barely seeing it. Something about shared custody if we have kids. Something about keeping the assets we came into the marriage with, and the same for assets we earn or inherit during the marriage. Something about a settlement if I don’t win against the Wyndhams—
“Hold up. What the hell is this?”
Ellis glances at the paragraph. “In the event that we don’t secure your inheritance, then upon the dissolution of your marriage to Miss Clarke, you will receive a settlement of five hundred million dollars.”
“Absolutely fucking not.”
Audrey frowns at me. “You are entrusting me—and through me, this law firm—to secure your inheritance. Eleanor’s will is clearly valid. The only way we can lose is if my lawyers make a terrible mistake during proceedings, and failure means that I have made a gross error in judgment asking Sullivan & Ellis to handle this matter.”
Beside her, Bradford appears pained but nods. “She’s not wrong.”
Audrey’s gaze doesn’t leave mine. “So if we fail, you would deserve compensation for my error.”
“No.” And because that one curt word clearly doesn’t convince her, I add, “You were my one chance of going up against the Wyndhams. This was all a gamble for me. If I lose, I don’t expect to walk out with money in my pocket.”
“The courts are not a casino, Mr. Moore. You don’t win a lawsuit by chance but with a strong legal argument,” Nathan Ellis says. “The Wyndhams might create a delay by contesting the will, but it’s all a bluff—and in this type of game, we can see their cards. We know they have nothing. They were relying on you not having either the money or the stamina to fight them. But their claims are pathetically weak in the eyes of the law and they are going to lose.”
So maybe the inheritance is a sure thing. If so, this clause won’t even matter. But I can’t let this shit stand.
“I don’t give a fuck. Take it out.” My gaze burns across the table to meet Audrey’s. “I’m not marrying you for your goddamn money.”
“Yes, you are,” she replies succinctly. “You asked me to marry you so that you could gain access to my money and my lawyers. Is that not so?”
“No, it’s not so. The marriage proposal was just to get your attention. I never figured you’d go for the whole thing.”
/>
Lips parted, she stares at me for a long second, her expression utterly still. Her throat works before she asks, “Your proposal was a gimmick?”
That makes it sound sleezy as shit. “No, I just…asked for more than I figured you’d give. I wanted a business partner. I wasn’t looking to fleece money out of a rich wife, or to get anything more than what I was supposed to inherit. Any money you spend helping me, I intend to pay it all back. I sure as hell don’t want half of a fucking billion dollars out of you.”
Nathan Ellis slides in again. “Mr. Moore, marriage to a woman like Audrey will come with certain drawbacks and sacrifices. You’ll have to endure public attention, and your personal relationships might suffer if any of your friends or family become resentful or envious of your new situation. I advise you to consider—”
“No. This bit where I get money from her? It’s a dealbreaker. If it’s in here, you better tear up this fucking thing because I won’t sign it.”
Ellis glances over at Audrey, who’s up at the window again, her back to all of us. “Audrey, you originally suggested the terms of this settlement. Do you have any objection to removing it?”
There’s a long silence. Dread clutches tight around my chest when I see how stiff she is—her spine rigid, her body unmoving.
Finally she says, “Please give Caleb and me a few minutes alone.”
Fuck. Heart thumping, I push back from the table and head over to the window while the others quietly leave. She stares straight ahead through the glass, giving me nothing to go on. Just her profile and the stiff set of her shoulders.
The inside of my throat feels like I swallowed gravel when I ask her, “So you put that bit in there, making sure I get money after we divorce?”
“Yes.”
“And is that what you expect—that we’ll split up after this legal shit is all over with?”
“Yes,” she says quietly. “That’s what I expect.”
All that gravel is ripping up my chest now. “When this marriage is over”—I can barely fucking get that out—“I don’t want your money.”
