by Eve Black
Moving up her body, Michael laid down next to her and pulled her back into his chest. She could feel his erection against her back.
“Michael…” she murmured, her thirst returning.
"Hmm," he hummed.
Heat bloomed in her cheeks as she said, “Can I return the favor?”
There was silence, then he thrust against her back, groaning deep in his chest. “God, as much as I want that, we need to go slow tonight. Ease you into this. We’ll discuss taking the next, more permanent step, after the wedding.”
She didn’t like that at all. “Is this about the non-consummation clause? I mean, if we didn’t actually have sex, it’s still in play, right?”
He swore under his breath. “Go to sleep, Helene. And don’t worry,” he purred into her neck, “we’ll finish what we started.”
9
Their wedding was over in ten minutes—it took longer for them to get to the courthouse than it did to get married. There were no vows to recite, only dotted lines to sign on. She signed her name, Michael signed his, the judge said his spiel about by the power vested in me… And, then it was done. She was Mrs. Michael Donovan. And it felt amazing. And it felt terrifying.
Michael seemed a little more preoccupied than he had been yesterday; he’d gone through the motions of the ceremony and the awkward congratulations from courthouse staff, and then he’d buried himself in his phone once they returned to the car. There’s was a marriage on paper, so, no, she didn’t expect him to fawn over her like they were actually newlyweds. But…after last night…she expected…well, a little more of something. Maybe an actual “kiss your bride” moment, where he took her face in his hands and kissed her like he meant it. Like last night.
He’d promised to finish what he started in the kitchen last night but…did he mean it? Now that they were married, that damn non-consummation clause was like a pendulum, swinging over her exposed neck.
Last night, Michael had taken her in his mouth and done amazing, mind-blowing things with her body, things she needed him to do again. And she needed to feel him over her, inside her. She needed to put her mouth around his cock and make him groan as he’d made her groan. She needed Michael. And that was even more terrifying. But when she woke in an empty bed, she realized that maybe Michael wasn’t as needful as she was.
"So, Mrs. Donovan," Michael said, sliding his phone into his coat pocket, and grinning at her—which only made her all the more aware of him. He'd worn a black suit coat, a white button-down, and a dark purple tie. Over his sweet ass, he wore a pair of tailored slacks that fit him perfectly. He was every inch the rich, sexy, powerful husband she'd never dreamt of having—but now, she did.
She returned his grin then gazed down at her hands in her lap. She’d worn a cream pencil skirt, a gray sweater, her red heels, and she pinned her hair back on the sides so it was still loose down her back, without being in her face. And…she actually put on some lipstick—bright red to match her shoes. It was her wedding day, after all. She felt the need to at least try to look like a proper bride.
“We have one stop to make before we head to lunch. I have the perfect little restaurant, down by the beach,” he continued, and she lifted her gaze to watch out the window.
“You do like seafood, right?” he asked, distractedly, his phone buzzing.
“Sure,” she replied, her gaze flicking to his face. Whatever he was looking at on his phone had all of his attention.
Oh, how wedded blissful I feel, her snarky inner voice sneered.
As she sat silently, tense, the car drove through mid-morning traffic, which was surprisingly heavy, then turned down Rodeo. This area was known for its jewelry stores, where celebrities went for their bling.
What were they doing here?
Before she could ask, the car pulled up in front of Magnen’s, a fine jewelry store her mother had probably frequented. The large, gleaming windows were stuffed with displays of glittering necklaces, two tiaras, bracelets, and rings. They were beautiful, if a little gaudy; the perfect gift to get a new wife…
Suddenly, she was more anxious than she’d been at her wedding. They hadn’t had rings to exchange; their arrangement hadn’t specified anything about rings. But…that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to get one. Hope, like a Zippo on high, flared to life inside her. If he bought her a ring, did that mean there was more to their union than just a bridal contract? She clamped her mouth shut against the desire to ask him outright.
Michael slipped his phone back into his pocket.
“Wait right here. I have to grab something, and then we can have some lunch,” he explained, sliding out of his seat. Helene watched him as he strode over the sidewalk toward the shop, his fine ass looking even finer on the move. Damn, she should have spent some of last night staring at his body, but she’d been so caught up in what he was doing to her, they hadn’t even gotten that far. She shuddered, the memory of his hands on her breasts, and his mouth on her clit made her nipples hard and her panties wet. Shit. She was in trouble.
Tonight, she promised herself. Tonight, she would strip every last piece of hand-sewn fabric from his hard, toned body, and she’d finally see her husband—in all his glory. She had a feeling that the reality would be far better than her fantasies, of which she’d had many over the course of sixteen hours. And then, once he was naked, she was going to lick every inch of his body, sliding her tongue along the lines, dips, and grooves of his taut, muscular frame. Then…she’d return the favor—though, she’d never done anything quite like that before. Would he notice she was a novice? He already knew she was a virgin, so maybe she’d earn extra wifey points for taking him in hand and diving in face first.
She giggled, the very idea ludicrous, but damn, she’d give it everything she had. And hell, she’d enjoy it. Just remembering the thickness and hardness of his shaft against her belly last night left her slavering, her mouth fucking watering, her chest tight. What would he taste like?
A lot better than any seafood, that’s for damn sure.
She hated seafood, but when he’d asked, so off-hand, she didn’t want to complain. Again, her mind was back to Michael, on his phone, paying more attention to his Samsung than his brand-new wife.
Groaning, Helene closed her eyes and leaned back, letting her head fall against the leather headrest.
What the hell is wrong with me? This isn’t a real marriage. What happened last night was obviously a mistake. He is over it, you should get over it.
When the door opened, Helene opened her eyes, lowering her face to watch as Michael slid back into his seat, a small blue bag in his hand. She met his gaze, his sapphire eyes were glittering brighter than any gem in any jewelry store window.
“What?” she asked, her anxiety levels shooting through the roof.
Grinning, a lopsided, uncertain grin that reminded Helene of a cat about to present a dead mouse as a present, Michael opened the bag and pulled out a square, blue box.
Helene held her breath. Had he…
Michael opened the box and turned it around, showing her two simple yet elegant rings. He pulled both rings from the box, then tossed the box on the seat beside him.
“I know the contract didn’t say anything about rings, but I wanted you to have something that showed how much I appreciated you taking a chance on me,” he said, softly, almost shyly.
What was there to be shy about? The man had seen her naked. If anyone should be shy it should be the size 16 ginger with plain brown eyes and thigh dimples.
Michael held out his hand, and Helene realized he expected her to place her hand in his. Swallowing down the nervous uncertainty, she did as silently bid. Michael smiled at her, though the smile didn’t reach his eyes, and slid a ring on her finger.
She pulled her hand back and inspected the ring. It was a gold band, ringed with bands of diamonds. It was beautiful; understated yet obviously worth more than she’d paid for everything in her wardrobe.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, breathily
. “Thank you.” She met his gaze again, this time there was something in his eyes she couldn’t label. Relief, perhaps?
“Good,” he exclaimed, rapping his knuckles on the glass partition between the driver and the private passenger section. “Now, we dine.”
As the car pulled away from the curb, headed west toward Manhattan Beach, Helene glanced at Michael’s bare left ring finger. Where was the second ring?
10
He was starving, ravenous, but not for seafood. Michael wanted to plant his face between Helene’s thighs and feast until she was mewling and shuddering, her strength sapped by the pleasure. He swallowed, willing his cock to remain hidden behind the jewelry store bag in his lap. Last night, he’d experienced the most intense sexual encounter of his life—and he hadn’t even come! Once he started kissing Helene, there wasn’t a force on earth that could stop him from hearing her scream his name in ecstasy. And, once she had, he wanted to hear it again…and again. But he’d stopped, wanting to pace himself, wanting to give her time to get used to the new arrangement.
Fuck that non-consummation clause. He wanted to slide his cock inside his wife’s tight channel and consummate the hell out of their union. As many times as he could in a single evening. He knew, just from how sweet and heady her passion tasted, that she’d be a goddamn scorching blaze when she orgasmed with his cock inside her the first time. And he’d be engulfed right along with her.
But that was tonight. Right now, his wife was sitting across from him, staring out the window like she’d rather be anywhere else than in the car with him. Had he done something to upset her? He thought back on the ceremony—if that’s what you’d call it—and couldn’t think of anything he’d said or done that could have made her angry. As a matter of fact, he’d only spoken a few words to her that morning, once she’d finally come out of her room. He’d woken up with her, curled into him, and he’d immediately hardened, his mind awhirl with thoughts of fast, hot morning sex. He’d bolted from the bed, terrified of how deeply and savagely those images had burned him. He’d dressed quickly and left the room. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to her, it was that he couldn’t. He’d been nursing a hard on all night, and he was trying to get some work done—work was usually an erection killer—but then, she’d walked into the living room wearing the bright red lipstick on her plump lips, and his mind went to last night; her, lying on the bed, writhing in pleasure, clawing at his shoulders, tugging on his hair, sobbing, groaning, and then her asking him if she could return the favor—he nearly came right there, in the living room.
Damn, but she was lusty, and he couldn’t keep his mind off of her.
He realized, then, what the problem was. After their explosive, intimate encounter last night, Helene was probably feeling nervous, maybe even a little shy. She was a virgin, which meant she wasn’t acquainted with the morning-after awkwardness.
Hopefully, it wouldn’t take long for her to ease right on into it, because he planned on there being a lot of morning-afters, at least for the next six months.
At that thought, anger surfaced. His damn father and that damn contract. Michael had already signed the amendment to the contract yesterday, right before dinner. It was why he’d had the car pick him up downtown, at his lawyer’s office. Sure, he was a billionaire, he could have had the lawyer come to him, but he’d needed a reason to leave the penthouse—and the too tempting woman, hiding behind her bedroom door.
Trapped in the mental toilet of his own making, he didn’t notice they’d arrived at the restaurant until Tony opened the door. Helene cast an anxious look at him from under her burnished lashes, and he offered her an apologetic smile.
“Shall we?” he said, extending his arm to let her out first. It wasn’t just that he wanted to see her lush ass in that skirt, he was also being a gentleman.
The little surfside restaurant was a mostly al fresco place, with tables placed just so on a deck facing the ocean. The sun was bright, right overhead, shining down from a light blue, cloudless sky, but the umbrellas over each table would provide adequate shade.
Michael led Helene to a table, right at the railing, so they could look out over the ocean while they ate. Helene, sleek and gorgeous in her skirt and blousy sweater, flushed, her soft cheeks turning a rose color. Her fire-red hair floated over her shoulders in a cascade of flames that danced in the salty breeze.
What was she so nervous about? Determined to break the ice, and get her smiling and sassy again, he took the menu from her hand and propped his chin on his palm, leaning in over the table.
“You know what I’m hungry for?” he drawled, letting his voice drop low…quiet, so only she could hear. “A hot, wet, pink pussy…”
Her mocha eyes widened, and her fuck me red lips opened on a silent gasp. Her flush deepened, and he had to fight back the urge to drag her into the nearest bathroom and make her groan. Shit, make them both groan.
Struggling with the anguishing ache in his groin, he coughed to hide a moan as he adjusted himself under the table.
The waitress appeared then, a pretty blonde with big lips, fake breasts, and much too appreciative eyes. The whole time she was at the table, she was openly ogling him—which wasn’t really all that uncommon with him. He knew was he was good looking, he’d spent a decade honing his charm and sexual magnetism, but he was beyond leggy waitresses with bedroom eyes.
He glanced over at Helene, who was eyeing the waitress with narrow eyes that snapped with chocolate lava.
“Is that everything, hon?” the waitress—Yolanda—asked him, dipping down, just a bit, to offer a view of her ample cleavage.
“No, that’s all,” Helene drawled, her tone the vocal equivalent of unsheathed claws.
Yolanda turned to Helene, returned Helene's glare, then turned back to wink at him. She sashayed away, her hips moving like they had a mind of their own.
He couldn’t believe the woman’s audacity. He was a married man, for Christ’s sake, sitting with his wife! His gaze landed on Helene’s hands, which were gripping her water glass with white knuckles. Damn, she was pissed.
And he liked it. Her jealousy meant that keeping her around for six months would be easier than he first thought. If she was jealous, he could use that. Hell, he’d use whatever he had to—if it meant getting Donovan Innovations back, he’d promise Helene the moon and stars, as long as God took American Express Black.
“So, I have all of today off. What do you want to do?” he asked, suddenly very aware of his wife’s tense shoulders. Okay…she was more than just jealous.
"Hey, Helene," he began, reaching across the table to take her hands in his. "Don't worry about her. She's just some waitress in some restaurant. She can look at me all she wants…but…" he paused, waiting for her to meet his gaze, and when she did, he dropped his voice. "It's you I'm going home with. You I'm undressing, slowly. You I'm kissing from mouth to neck to nipple...to cunny. You I'm laying down in our bed. You I'm feasting on."
Her breath caught, and his cock hardened at the sound.
“You I’m going to fuck until neither of us can walk,” he finished, suddenly not in the least hungry for seafood. But that’s when Yolanda returned with their drinks, her gaze, once again, landing on him.
Frustrated—at his erection and the waitress—he needed to put an end to the unnecessary tension between him and his wife.
He turned his face from the waitress, stared into his wife’s lovely face, and quelled Yolanda’s flirtations by pulling Helene’s hand toward him, planting a kiss on her ring finger, and letting the diamonds catch the light. As the diamond wedding ring glimmered in the sunlight, Yolanda skittered away.
Their food was delivered by another waitress. She was probably fifty years old, and didn’t stay at the table long enough to get any ideas. Helene had been silent throughout most of the meal. He’d ask her questions about growing up, she’d elude them by talking about something else. He’d ask her about her work with the women’s shelter, she lit up and became anima
ted. She was glorious all fired up like that. And it didn’t hurt that, when she spoke about the shelter, the passion in her eyes was deep, pure. She truly loved helping those women. And he admired her for it.
But that niggling thought in the back of his mind returned… How did a woman who worked at a women’s shelter afford to use the Diamond Bridal Agency? And it occurred to him that, not once, had Helene talked about money, even though it was an obvious theme in their marriage. He’d offered her a $500 weekly allowance—which was a bad idea on his part, he could admit that. She hadn’t asked for it. She’d even said she had Mrs. Creed remove the stipulation in the contract about her getting a substantial sum if the marriage was canceled or annulled. Why would a gold-digger do that?
Maybe she isn’t content with small fish, maybe she wants the whale…
Perhaps she was the discarded daughter of a fellow oil baron, living on the scraps of a depleted inheritance. Maybe she’d won the lottery and blown it on trips to Vegas. Maybe she was just a very good grifter who could fool even the most stringent of background checks. He had money, he knew how easy it was to buy the services of a hacker or a document forger. Would it really be all that difficult to fake being rich to marry someone who actually was rich, so they could be rich, too?
Damn, he hated how his mind focused on the one possibility. Maybe she was who she said she was; Helene Collins, women’s shelter worker.
As they drove toward the penthouse, he couldn’t stop himself from wondering why the mystery of Helene didn’t bother him as much as it should have.
11
Helene licked the spoon then tossed it back into the now empty mixing bowl. She was stressed, and when she got stressed, she cooked. Since she’d already picked at her lunch at the restaurant, she wasn’t in the mood for a snack. She wanted cookies. So, she looked up an online recipe for double chocolate cookies, and turned the kitchen into her own private therapy session. The timer on the commercial-sized oven dinged, and she grabbed the hot pad and extracted the fluffy disks of chocolatey goodness. She took a deep sniff, letting the scent of sweet and chocolate fill her nostrils, drawing away the frustration, the anxiety, the hurt…
