by L. Steele
I'd spent most of the day recovering.
That was two days ago. He hasn't touched me since, which is strange... considering we’ve had sex every night for almost three weeks... He has an insatiable appetite, and enough stamina to make my knees go weak thinking about how he's marked me each time.
Tonight is the first time since we got married that he is running late at the office. A meeting of FOK investments with all the Seven—well, minus Baron, he'd said. I glance at the clock: midnight. Shit. Where is he? Is he really at work?
Why hasn't he called or texted me?
I sit up in the bed, where I have been tossing and turning over the last hour, trying to sleep. Damn it. I have no intention of keeping his bed warm, like a good little wife, waiting for him. And isn’t that exactly what you've done over the last 3 weeks? Yeah. I haven't left the hotel, content to hide myself away here. Have turned down invitations to meet the girls, even an invitation to tea with Meredith.
Amelie had called me a few times, to check that I was okay. We'd chatted and I'd reassured her I was fine, just coming to terms with my newly married status. She'd made me promise that I'd call her if I needed anything; I hadn't, of course.
Fact is, I don’t want to break this pattern of marital bliss we seem to be indulging in. It sure feels like marital bliss.
Or perhaps it’s the calm before the storm? I shake off the hardness that coils in my chest. I need to keep busy...while I waited for my 'lord and master' to turn up.
Thankfully, he has stopped insisting I call him Sir, which is a relief. What caused him to change his mind? Not that it has stopped him from being as demanding in his needs toward me. All of which I have been happy to comply with.
Our time together is almost up. Was it wrong of me to not try to get the information needed before this? Had it been foolish of me to try to make the most of the time Antonio had granted me? He'd assured me he'd keep Nina safe during this time. Had I been mistaken in trusting him on that? He won't hurt Nina, I am sure of that. If anything, his expression had indicated that he has feelings for her, but that’s my intuition. What if I’m wrong?
What if I had been stupid to allow Saint to lull me into a false sense of security? I haven't wanted to do anything to upset the balance of sorts that we seem to have established. Where the hell is he, anyway?
I shove the covers off of my body, then forgo my clothes in favor of a bathrobe. This late, there won't be many hotel guests around. I take the elevator down to the heated indoor swimming pool on the first level. Draping my bathrobe over a lounge chair, I dive in, begin to swim laps. The rhythmic ebb and flow of the water over me, the burn in my arms, the power of my body pitted against the resistance provided by my headlong rush—all of it sinks into my blood, calms me. I reach the far end of the pool for the fourth time, when an electric current runs up my spine. I thrust an arm out, push forward, raise my eyes and spot the figure at the head of the pool. My muscles bunch, I miss a stroke, go under, then come up gasping. My heart begins to thud, my pulse beating at my temples as adrenaline laces my blood. I propel through the water, toward the man who stands motionless. Waiting...waiting for me. I reach the edge of the pool, hold onto the rim.
Run my gaze up those beat up cowboy boots, the tailored slacks that outline those powerful legs, to the tent of fabric at his crotch. My throat dries. Of course, he's aroused. He hasn't had sex for...three nights now. Unless, he'd sought out someone else before coming here?
Ask him, damn it. And what? Sound like a nagging wife? I toss my head. No way. Besides, that would be a dead giveaway that that I've been thinking of him all day. And no way, am I giving away what little power I am clinging to in this relationship
I tip my chin up, meet that searing blue gaze.
"How did you find me?
"Very little happens here without my being aware of it."
I glance up at the corners of the ceiling. "The cameras?"
He nods. "I switched them off, by the way." His lips kick up.
My throat closes. He reaches down, unbuckles his belt. The sound of leather against his buckle rasps across my sensitized nerve endings. He lowers his zipper and my pulse rate ratchets up. His thick shaft spills out. He widens his stance, grabs his cock and pumps himself hard once. A bead of precum appears at the tip of the angry head. My mouth dries.
I can't take my gaze off of his swollen dick as he proceeds to massage himself. His strokes are ferocious, punishing. His breathing grows shallow; my chest rises and falls in tandem. His shaft thickens, and even with the distance between us, I can see the veins along the underside pulsing, throbbing. My sex clenches, my nipples tighten, and goosebumps pop over my skin. I lick my lips, gulp down my anticipation. Don't move. Don't say anything. Wait... Wait. He massages himself once more, then stops.
What the—?
As I watch, he toes off his shoes. Letting go of his dick—which stands erect without any help from his hands, thank you very much—he shrugs off his expensive jacket, drops it to the chair, followed by his shirt. His tanned skin gleams in the warm ceiling lights; his eight pack abs flex as he proceeds to pull off his socks.
He shucks off his pants, along with his boxers, then poses in place for a second. Enough for me to take in the awesome sight of that naked expanse of 100% masculine alpha male who belongs to me. He is mine, from the moment I'd laid eyes on him. Why had I ever thought I'd be able to avoid his charisma, his power, the raw animal magnetism that emanates from his sexy-as-fuck presence?
I gulp, my hand slips, and I slide back into the pool, only he's already there. He dives into the water, arcing up to close his arms around me. His lips find mine and he plants his bulk between my thighs, so I have no choice but to part them. Then he thrusts inside me, instantly filling me as he impales me completely. All I can do is grab onto his shoulders and hold on, as he pushes forward, pins me against the side of the pool, and proceeds to fuck every thought out of my head.
He swipes his tongue across my lower lip, brings his hand down to cup my butt as he slides his finger inside my puckered back hole. My entire body bucks. He winds his fingers around my neck, holding me in place, before ripping his mouth from mine. He peers deeply into my eyes, holds my gaze, urging me with his expression to strain against him, push my pelvis forward, match him thrust for thrust. He kicks his hips forward one last time, bottoming out inside of me, then whispers, "Come."
The climax instantly crashes over me as he comes inside of me, his body spasming along with mine. I sag against him, all thoughts fucked out of me as I float in that strange after-space that comes from being completely and utterly spent.
The world tilts. I sense him tugging me along to the steps at the side of the pool. He scoops me up in his arms, then walks out of the water. He snatches up one of the towels piled by a lounge chair and dries me off, then himself. He picks up my bathrobe and places it around my shoulders. He helps me into the robe then ties it around me with great care. He fetches his pants and steps into them. Carrying me in his arms he takes the private elevator up to his suite. Once inside the room, he strips us both, then carries me into the shower.
He proceeds to shampoo my hair, then seats himself on the stone bench in the shower before washing every inch of my body. He begins to soap himself, and I catch his wrist.
"Let me," I clear my throat, realizing those are the first words I have spoken since I saw him at the pool.
He nods, then leans back, spreading his arms across the back of the bench. I reach around to shut off the shower, then pour out the liquid soap. I work it in across his biceps, down his corded chest, digging into the dips between his pecs. He makes a noise of satisfaction, then sinks back, widening his stance. I massage down his belly, to his thigh, then sink my knuckles into the tense backs of his calves. Sitting cross legged on the floor, I place his large foot on my lap, brush my fingers between his toes. Then hold up his foot to massage the underside and gasp, "Saint."
He instantly tugs on my grip. I let go of his foot and
he stamps it flat onto the floor.
"What happened?" I ask.
His jaw tenses.
"Those scars, Saint..."
He sets his jaw, "What about them?"
"Did you get them when you were kidnapped?" I swallow, "Did they do this to you?"
"What's it to you?"
"Not all of the scars are old."
"What do you mean?" He lowers his arms to his lap, his movements deliberate, "What are you trying to say, Victoria?"
Shit. When he calls me by my full name, it's never a good sign.
"Just that, if you're trying to hurt yourself..."
He rises to his feet and my heart thuds in my chest. I have to look up, have to sweep my gaze up every ripped inch of him to meet his gaze.
His eyes blaze, then a shutter comes over his face. "I'm not." He steps around me and heads for the shower door.
"Saint," I jump to my feet, turn toward him, "you can talk to me."
"Oh?" He straightens. "And why would I do that?"
"I'm your wife."
He turns then and his lips curve in a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, "Fake wife, darling."
I wring my fingers together, "You don't mean it, you are simply lashing out at me because you are confused inside."
"We spent some time together; the sex was okay," he tilts his head, "sometimes."
Bastard.
"Don't go mistaking the last few days for some kind of intimacy between us." His lips twist, "It was a transaction, make no mistake."
I swallow. My throat hurts and my eyes burn. Was I wrong to imagine that the last few weeks had shifted the tone of the relationship between us? No, it can't be. I tip up my chin, "You're lying."
"And you..." He looks me up and down, "You are replaceable." Turning he grabs a towel, and leaves.
34
Saint
* * *
No one can replace her and that is the problem.
I dry myself with the towel, then toss it aside.
She has crawled under my skin, sunk into my blood and I can't get enough of her. I'd been heading to work the last three weeks every day—including weekends—because hell, I had to make a point to her, and to myself, that I’m not dependent on her. This entire sham of a relationship will be over soon enough. She is going to trip up and expose the real reason she propositioned me. I'll walk away from her then, and what... Find another? I ball my fists at my sides. What will happen to her once I find out her secret? Where will she go? If she thinks the Mafia will let her walk away, she is being awfully naïve. They'll kill her. My heart begins to thud and a cold sensation coils in my chest. I can't let that happen. I'll figure out a way to extricate her from whatever mess she is in...regardless of whether there is a chance for us together. Fuck. I pace the carpeted floor the water drying on my skin. What is wrong with me? Why can’t I fight this need to... What? Take care of her?
I'd let down my guard enough to take off my socks today. That...has never happened before. Not when I’m in the dressing room of the gym, nor with any other woman. The socks stay on, always. I am not hiding the scars... It’s more that I don't want to answer any questions about them.
Have I become so relaxed in her presence that I had not only taken off my socks, but also had allowed her to wash me? A first. No one had been given that privilege...before her. I had begun to look forward to coming home to her— Home? Did I call this hotel suite—which is a transient place to stay, at best—home? Is it home because she is here? Why do I enjoy waking up with her coiled into my side? What is Gigi doing to me? Whatever it is, it has to stop.
The bathroom door opens, a cloud of steam wafts out, and from it, she steps forward into the room.
I draw in a breath.
She's naked.
Not that I hadn't seen her without clothes earlier. But the sheer impudence with which she glides forward—head high, spine straight, perky breasts thrust up, breasts that tremble with every step she takes—that's different. She hasn't shown that fighting spirit of hers over the last few weeks. Perhaps I've been too busy taking what she offers, I haven't challenged her recently, and damn, if I haven't missed the thrust and parry between us. She walks around the bed to her side.
I twist my lips. Step forward. "Stop," I growl.
She ignores me, pulls back the covers, no doubt preparing to slide in and fall asleep. And leave me tossing and turning next to her? No way.
"Do as I say, or I swear, you'll regret it," I stalk to her.
She turns her back on me... Big mistake. I reach her, and she stiffens, pulls her shoulders back. I swoop down to grab her around the waist and she swerves to the side. What the hell?
I angle toward her; she brushes past me. I pivot, turn to face her as she backs away.
I lower my voice to a hush, "You don't want to do this."
She pales, then tips up her chin, "I am doing this. I’m not playing your games anymore"
"You'll regret this." The pulse thuds at my temple.
She tosses her head, "So, what's new?"
I take a step forward.
She skitters back, "Afraid you'll lose the chase?"
My heartbeat ratchets up.
"Is the big bad billionaire worried that his wife will be able to outrun him?"
My vision tunnels. The hair on the nape of my neck prickles. I drum my fingers on my chest. "Be careful what you wish for, sweetheart, for when I catch you this time, I won't' show any mercy."
She throws back her head and laughs. She fucking laughs. "You're funny, Saint, you know that?" she wheezes. "I have news for you, asshole."
I growl.
"—Oh, you don’t deserve the title of alphahole yet. All you've done so far is threaten me and use your wealth and so-called power to keep me under your control. Well, let me tell you, that's not gonna work anymore.”
"Oh?" I bare my teeth.
She winces, then pulls herself up to her full height, "It's true. Anyone can be a bully... But to use your wealth to actually make a difference in the world? To use your power to help those less fortunate? To bare your heart and show your feelings? To make yourself vulnerable enough to be hurt? That's true strength."
I roll my shoulders. "You done?"
"No." Color suffuses her cheeks. She closes the distance between us, thrusts her finger into my chest. "I thought you were different, that behind that obnoxious persona is someone who—"
"Cares? Who feels? Who had fallen in love with you? Who would change his life for you? Who would reform for you and help you in whatever little plan you have going here?"
She pales.
"I have news for you, doll. Your cunt is no magic pussy, that one taste of it, and poof, I turn over a new leaf."
She swallows.
"You...you're hurting, Saint. That's why you are trying to hurt me."
I laugh, "What a crock." A bead of sweat slides down my back.
"You're afraid." She leans in and her scent envelops me.
My groin tightens; my gut churns.
"That's why you're lashing out at me. I understand, Saint. Let me help." She raises her hand toward my face, "You're—"
"Bored," I yawn, then step back. "Save your insights, my sweet fake wife, for I couldn't give a fuck about your thoughts."
A lone tear squeezes out of the corner of her eye.
A hot sensation stabs at my chest.
"Take a good look, sweetheart," I spread my arms, "cause I am not changing."
She searches my features with an intensity that borders on hate... Love? Nah! Not that. Never that. Everything between us has been a charade... Well, except that she'd been a virgin. Fuck, what does it mean that she came to me untouched? Sweat beads my palms. Nothing. It means nothing. Another maneuver in this scheme of hers to catch me off kilter. If she'd intended to get close to me... Well, she has succeeded. And it stops here. Now.
"Get out," I jerk my chin toward the door.
"What?"
"Out of my bedroom," I growl.
&nb
sp; "No."
I blink. "Excuse me?"
She ducks under my arm, then slides into the bed and pulls up the covers to her chin. "I am sleeping here. You take the couch."
35
Saint
* * *
"What the fuck?" I glance up at the ceiling.
My wife had thrown me out of our bedroom and I had taken it. The fuck had happened there? Had I actually dragged my sorry arse out of there and retreated to the living room...like a loser? My present condition certainly seems to indicate so.
I shift my frame on the couch in the living room, which had seemed comfortable enough on the face of it, but try squeezing a six-feet-four-inch frame onto the bloody thing for the night...and fuck, it isn’t a laughing matter. How the hell had everything gone so tits up? How had I allowed that tiny woman to get the better of me? Had I actually agreed to turn the marital bed over to her for the night? And why hadn't I simply checked into another hotel room for the night? Why can't I bear to leave her alone, even for one night? Because she is my asset and I can't leave her unguarded. Bull-fucking-shit, what a crock that is. All the time I'd been away at the office, she'd been on her own. Okay not quite. I'd had my people tailing her, yes, even in the hotel. So what? It’s the only way to find out what the hell her endgame is in all of this.
I fold my arm over my eyes, stretch myself, and my bloody legs hang over the side. Shit. Clearly, I am too large for this space. I turn over, punch the cushion under my head. How the hell had it come to this? I am in the most expensive suite, in an iconic hotel owned by me, in a city where I am—okay was— the most eligible bachelor—in a country where I am consistently among the top five richest men. And here I am, spending the night on a couch? Fuck. I turn over and slide off of the couch. Hit the floor on my arse. Insane. This is beyond ridiculous. This is a clear sign that I am pussywhipped.
