by Anne Marsh
“Tell. We got married,” she says. “Also? You’re a dick.”
CHAPTER TWO
GRATEFUL IT’S NOT MY CIRCUS
Hana
LIKE ANY TODDLER or alpha male, Liam Masterson is not used to not getting his way. Fortunately for him, he has me in his life—a life I’m newly determined to shake up like a soda can. He prides himself on his calm, take-charge demeanor, but I’ve always been able to rile him up if I put my mind to it. It’s a gift, although currently it’s also a gift he clearly would like to return to the store because apparently our spur-of-the-moment marriage was not in his letter to Santa or his five-year master plan. Too bad, so sad. Making this easy for him would be a colossal mistake. He’s spent years dismissing me as a sweet, slightly annoying and totally asexual being. That changed last night and there’s no way I let him tuck me back into the baby sister box.
We had sex.
I saw his penis.
Truly, saw doesn’t begin to cover what I did; I touched, licked, fisted and rode said penis and it was every bit as amazing as I’d ever fantasized. Better, in fact. My first reaction when I woke up was to pull his big, cranky, standoffish self to me and kiss the ever-living daylights out of him. I wasn’t ready to let go of my fantasy Liam.
Fantasy Liam would have taken charge—like Real Liam—but he’d have rolled me underneath him and demonstrated a perfect understanding of to have and to hold. Hands-on demonstrations are the best, so yes, the current state of things isn’t ideal. He doesn’t seem to want to hear have me—at least not from my lips.
In fact, for the first time in forever, I’m mad at Liam. Usually he makes a brief but compelling appearance in my sexual fantasies, I get off, and then the next time I see him IRL, I blush and hope he hasn’t acquired mind-reading powers. If anyone could, it would be Liam.
The man’s never met a skill he couldn’t master. It’s like he just wakes up on a random weekend, and then when most of us would think oh good, it’s Saturday, so maybe I’ll zip over to Walmart and buy a nice geranium for that empty plant pot and satisfy my new gardening aspirations, he teaches himself hydroponics and constructs a greenhouse by noon for the one-of-a-kind flowers he’s germinated from seed. And then he’d sell those seeds for a million bucks, invest the proceeds and have a country named after him by dinnertime.
If you asked me to pick two adjectives to describe Liam, smart and ruthless would top my list. He’s unbelievably good at making money because he doesn’t hesitate to use both of those qualities. The thing is, I’ve never really questioned his morals. Does he love money? Absolutely. I don’t think too many people would argue that being broke is an ideal condition, and he was dirt-poor growing up. I’m a fan of keeping my bills paid, too. And it’s not as if he’s a Scrooge McDuck, gleefully swimming in pools of gold coins. He gives back generously to his community and I know for a fact he’s super hands-on with a big science education foundation.
Because behind the expensive suits and private jets lurks a secret Boy Scout. He’s the person you call when the ride-sharing service declines your credit card and you’re facing an eight-mile walk, the guy who will come over at 4:00 a.m. to fix your backed-up toilet, the one who never yells even when you reverse your first car into his truck and there’s all sorts of bumper damage. He just buys an aftermarket rearview camera and installs it while you’re crying in the bathroom and then moves on as if it never happened. He has this pathological need to fix a problem and tie it up with a badge-worthy knot.
The last thing I want is for him to fix and dismiss me, however, so I force myself to saunter out his bedroom door. This requires ignoring the authoritative way he says my name, as if I’m a pet he can order to stay. It also requires ignoring certain inconvenient facts, like my being naked. Nudity is a common side effect of alcohol for me. Not only does drinking make my clothes melt off, but it leads to those articles showing up in the strangest places. You’d think my panties at least would be on Liam’s bedroom floor, but the wide-plank, artisanal, bloody expensive wood is as immaculate as an iceberg. Wherever we started our wedding night, it wasn’t here.
One of the few things Liam and I have in common, other than my brother, is our fuzziness on the precise sequence of events.
In addition to my naked state, the second inescapable fact seems like a multipart disaster. A veritable list of sad truths.
1. It’s 10:12 on a Saturday morning.
2. I’ve just spent the night making my dirtiest dreams about Liam come true.
3. I proposed to him because why not make my dreams come true?
4. Answer: because he doesn’t remember our getting married.
5. He hates himself for not remembering.
If I’d known amnesia was a possibility, I’d have whipped out my phone and recorded the consummation the way he did the ceremony itself, but it’s too late now. Whatever changed his mind last night about my little sister status and had him agreeing to my drunken marriage proposal, it was an aberration and he’s now reset to his default factory mode of older brother. Next will come the patronizing, well-intentioned overprotectiveness that makes me want to scream—and not in the mind-blown-orgasm-achieved way.
I do my best to come to terms with this sad reality as I stand in the hallway outside Liam’s bedroom. I haven’t spent much time at Château Sin since Liam bought the palatial Napa Valley property a few years ago. Napa’s gorgeous on the outside, all vineyards and rolling hills, but once you see inside some of the gated enclaves (or sneak inside like I did), you realize a few things fast. It’s an expensive playground for San Francisco’s wealthy socialites, philanthropists and tech billionaires, the kind of place where an acre of grape land sells for ridiculous amounts of money and then the owner has outdoor sex parties with a hundred of his acquaintances.
I’m not allowed here because he appointed himself the protector of my virtue when I started high school. Still, I’m not stupid and I know how to use the internet. The man has fan pages. By the time I was thirteen, I knew he was a sex god and that he believed he was protecting my innocence. In theory, I appreciated this evidence of a moral character, although his scruples inevitably got in the way of my teenage lust. At sixteen I’d fantasized about gifting him with said innocence, and by eighteen I’d taken care of business thanks to a coed freshman dorm.
My few Liam-sanctioned visits to Château Sin prior to last night had been brief and largely confined to the massive swimming pool surrounded by grapevines and ridiculous faux Grecian statuary. We’ve spent as much time discussing the reasons for the estate’s unofficial but horribly tacky nickname as I’ve spent up here—none. Liam’s house is as rigidly compartmentalized as his personal life: he lets anybody and everybody wander all over the ground floor, touching his shit and enjoying themselves, but the second floor is strictly off-limits. I’ve always assumed his forbidden spaces held his secret man cave/dragon lair. Batmobile storage. Dead bodies. Discovering it’s just a clothes-eating, orgasm-granting black hole is weird.
And a little disappointing.
I feel like I just shoved the Liam statue off its special pedestal in my heart, which is stupid. Just because he’s the first guy I fell in love with doesn’t mean he deserves me even if on paper, he’s total husband material—employed, has health insurance, doesn’t live in his mom’s basement, remembers major milestones.
Château Sin is definitely not a basement. Absolutely everything is expensive and oversize, from the ceiling height to the wall of windows that line the western side of the house. You could fit an entire forest of redwoods in there and still have room leftover for a bonus mountain. Sunlight pours in through the glass. It’s California, so the light isn’t unexpected, but I take a second to appreciate it anyway. Sunshine is definitely going into my gratitude journal later today. Parading in front of glass when I’m buck-ass naked is probably more exhibitionist than is socially acceptable, but this is Château Sin—home of leg
endary kinky sex parties—and my give-a-fuck is broken. I’m tired of being written off as a good girl. I want my shot at being dirty.
I stick to the sunny spots while I consider my good-girl conundrum and an urgent need to seek warmth. Liam’s house is severely air-conditioned. He must be a top 100 individual contributor to global warming.
Although I like my naked statement, the goose bumps are unpleasant. Stumbling across a well-stocked linen closet with a stack of fluffy bath sheets or maybe a guest robe would be optimal, but I’ve clearly used up my karmic deposits for the week as no towels magically appear. Liam’s massive windows are also sans curtains, so I can’t even fashion an impromptu toga, a handy skill acquired at college. Equally lacking is a convenient trail of panties, dress and shoes leading to Liam’s bedroom door. Sucks to be naked me.
When said bedroom door opens behind me, I glue myself to the closest window, under the guise of admiring the sun-browned hills and perfect rows of grapevines. Play it cool. You do not show fear to Liam—he’ll walk all over you, issuing well-intentioned orders.
So I watch him in the reflection and wait for him to make a move.
God, he’s gorgeous.
Bossy, arrogant, far too domineering—and so, so drop-dead gorgeous.
I give up on playing it cool and turn around to appreciate the view. Liam’s a big bear of a man, wearing a pair of misbuttoned faded Levis and nothing else. The jeans hug an impressive bulge and a pair of wickedly muscled thighs. His sun-bronzed chest is all chiseled abs and a faint trail of golden hair leading down to a very, very happy place. I stare shamelessly. He props one broad, muscled shoulder against the door frame, jamming a hand into his pocket. Warm, amused eyes watch me. He’s barefoot, and despite his huge size, he looks downright cuddly. He also looks like he’s once again very much in control. That first part is an illusion. Liam didn’t claw his way to the high throne of Silicon Valley by being nice. Or sweet. Or anything other than whip-smart, ruthless and willing to do whatever it takes.
Part of me finds said ruthless intelligence sexy.
The same part that likes to tease him.
It’s also the part that sends me sinking into a warrior pose, straightening my arms over my head. Yes, let me salute these delicious, warm rays of light with my boobs. I must have been a cat in a former life because I freaking love the heat.
Deliberately, I arch my back, meeting Liam’s gaze. “Morning, sunshine.”
Would it be over the top to roll the tips of my nipples between my fingers like he’d done last night?
“Don’t be a bitch, Hana.”
He sounds slightly desperate, which is new. Bet he’d panic if I dropped into a downward dog.
“No naked yoga. Got it. Are there other house rules at Château Sin I should know about? A menu of dirty sex acts to pick from? Do you offer room service?”
He keeps his eyes on my face. So disappointing. I’ve followed this man around like a puppy for years, so the less mature part of me (along with certain southern regions) badly wants him to notice me. Because I’m not ten anymore, I remind myself not to wish bad things on his inattentive, cranky, unappreciative self. Ill thinking will just boomerang back on me. It’s basic cause and effect.
He pads toward me and holy wow, I have another item for today’s gratitude list. The man is poetry in motion—dirty, hot, 100 percent confident, epic poetry. If I’m a happy, sunbathing housecat, Liam is a predator feline and I hope I’m lunch.
He holds out a shirt. Of course. “Get dressed.”
“You’re surprisingly prudish for a man who hosts sex parties.”
When I take the shirt from him, our fingers brush. He might have earned a billion dollars with his big, beautiful brain but he doesn’t sit on his ass 24/7. The man has a serious rock-climbing addiction, witnessed by the calluses and collection of small scars decorating his fingers. I’ve fantasized about his strong hands, sure, but my new firsthand knowledge sends little shivers through my lower belly.
“Maybe I don’t share.” There’s not so much as a hint of a smile on his face now. I can’t tell if he’s pulling my leg or making a delicious caveman statement.
“So group sex is off the menu?” I tip my head to the side, trying to read the truth on his face. It’s not that I think he would lie to me—Liam is scrupulously honest and will avoid answering questions rather than outright prevaricating—but he hates sharing details about himself.
“This isn’t the time.” The look he gives me says I should know what the etiquette is for this situation.
I’m neither Miss Manners nor Emily Post, so I indulge myself in some shameless staring to give him time to remember who I am. His eyes are hazel (a Liam fact I knew already), but the sunlight reveals they’re flecked with gold because Mother Nature marked him as a rich boy from the day of his birth and he could have been an underwear model if he hadn’t decided to be an evil business genius instead.
His gorgeous eyes move over my face, analyzing, as I slip into his shirt. I consider leaving it unbuttoned, but he’s right.
Bitchiness will only come back to bite me.
Plus, I’m cold.
I compromise and do up everything but the top three buttons. Since Liam’s built like a lumberjack, this leaves enough cleavage on display to remind him I’m no child.
“What you said back there—” He tips his head toward his bedroom. Stops. Frowns, clearly marshaling his thoughts. I wonder just how bad his hangover is because this is the first time I can recall Liam being at a loss for words. “That we got married last night—”
God, he’s cute.
“You did buy me a ring.” I give him a smile, half teasing, half pissed he’s forgotten.
He pulls his hand out of his pocket and unfolds his clenched fingers to reveal a stunning bridal ring set. He’s holding half a diamond mine in his palm. The stones dazzle in the morning sunlight and I wonder just how much money Liam spent. Probably more than my poor mortgaged bee farm is worth to the bank. I definitely had far less to drink than he did, but my memories are still less clear than I’d like. I do remember that after we got married beneath the big top, he made a phone call and someone in a dark suit showed up with a case of rings. I’d argued for something less costly than the GDP of a small nation, but I’d lost that battle.
“So these are yours.” He holds the rings out to me. Liam has always been generous when it comes to money. He shares cash easily—it’s himself that he keeps locked up tighter than a bank vault. He also tends to think that everything—and everyone—has a price tag.
I reach out and close Liam’s fingers over the rings. “You keep them.”
“Is that all I did, buy you jewelry? Did I fuck anything up?”
I step into him, looping my arms around his neck. I can’t help but notice that he freezes—and that his arms most definitely do not close around me. “I proposed. You said yes. Then you said now and we may have traded small sexual favors until I agreed. Turns out the ringmaster of the sexual circus you hired is an ordained minister in the state of California.”
Disgust flickers across his face. “I’m an ass. Jesus.”
“Pretty sure he was nondenominational.”
His eyes roam over my face. “We’re really married?”
“One hundred percent.” I wink at him. Play it cool. “However, I’m sure you have about a million security tapes you can pull if you’d like independent verification. Also, you recorded the ceremony itself on your phone. I was unclear at the time if you wanted spank bank material or a souvenir for our future grandkids.”
“I never planned on getting married,” he says. I can’t help but notice he’s not holding me back. “Not because you’re not great but, you know—”
Right. Everyone who lived on our block in Berkeley would have voted his parents most likely to kill each other. The lots were small, the houses close, and his parents wer
e never quiet about their disagreements. Whenever they fought, Liam would climb over our fence and hang out with us.
“I know,” I say.
I step away from him, stupidly hoping he’ll pull me back into his arms. I suppose the ringmaster-slash-minister could have been a lying liar, but whatever team of lawyers Liam has on speed dial will undoubtedly sort it all out. In addition to melting my clothes off my body, alcohol gives me a big-time case of fuzzy logic. Last night, marrying Liam seemed like an excellent idea, the perfect way to transform myself from innocent and off-limits little sister to hot, sexy woman while making my teenage fantasies come true. Today, however, I have doubts.
He reaches out and snags me with his free hand, his warm fingers braceleting my wrist as he tugs me gently to a stop. Liam is always careful with me, even when I wish he wouldn’t be. “I’ll fix this. I swear.”
CHAPTER THREE
PANTS ARE OVERRATED
Hana
WITHOUT WAITING FOR my response, Liam starts towing me back into the bedroom. I feel like a little Hana barge bobbing in the wake of Destroyer Liam. It’s not a good feeling, but apparently I used up my quota of those last night. I let him lead for the moment, though, because he’s great at fixing things and I’m stupidly tempted to let him.
Except that we both still want different things. Why did I think we actually had a shot at us? Too much bourbon? Too many daydreams? I’m not naive, but I’m not exactly jaded, either.
I’m the kind of hopeful where secret heart wishes made at the top of a Ferris wheel seem like an actual plan, something that can come true even when my feet are firmly back on the ground. I grabbed my chance at Liam when he said yes.
Liam stops abruptly, fixing his considerable attention on his massive, mussed-up bed. Just a handful of buttons stand between us and being naked. Heat rushes through my body and my palm hovers over the small of his back and the hard, bare curve of his skin.
