by Eve Langlais
She made him pay. She rose up from under the blankets wearing only a long shirt and panties, and fully straddled him. A thigh on either side, her groin pressed against him, a hot, moist mess even with her underthings. A goddess with hair tangled and tumbling down her back.
“I think you need to pee,” she declared, giving him a firm rub. “But I’m going first!” Then she was gone, pert ass peeking from her high-cut undies.
His dick throbbed something fierce. Not with urine, he should add.
He didn’t have time to fix the problem. She’d be back any second now.
Or not.
She stayed in that bathroom long enough that he worried she’d drowned in the toilet. When she opened the door, she looked entirely too smug, and not one bit horny.
More like the cat that got into the cream.
“You masturbated!” he accused boldly.
Her reply emerged even bolder as she lifted her chin and said, “Twice.”
He really wished he’d fisted himself and spewed his seed onto her pillow. Instead, his balls ached. Unfair. But he wasn’t about to emasculate himself with the admission.
“I’m surprised you didn’t bring a phone in there with you so you could share the pleasure with your fiancé.”
“Who needs a phone when there’s built-in video calling.” She sauntered out, wearing a towel and nothing else.
Hot anger filled him at the thought she might have given a show to another man. How dare she cheat on him?
Then again, knowing her as he did, he had to wonder. He relaxed, arm under his head. “How is Simon? Have you told him yet that you’re already married?”
“Actually, I told him I missed him and couldn’t wait to be his wife.” She walked into the closet, and he lay back, closing his eyes.
He would not go on a rampage. He would not hunt this Simon down and strip the skin from his bones. He wouldn’t let her get under his fur. But for that to happen, he needed to start controlling the situation.
What could he do to regain the upper hand? How to throw her off balance enough for that mask she wore to slip?
The idea he got brought a smile to his lips.
When she emerged from the closet, she squeaked. “What are you doing?”
“Masturbating.” Or so he made it seem under the blankets, bumping his fist up and down in the groin area. Who would have thought someone as jaded as she could still blush?
He must have been convincing because she turned her back. “Can’t you be discreet?”
“I’m under the blankets.”
“I can see it moving.”
“It?” He snorted.
“Sorry, would you prefer I call it your little soldier?”
He almost flung back the blanket to remind her of his true girth. He didn’t, mostly because she still had a red flush to her cheeks. She remembered how well he was built.
“I don’t suppose you want to come over here and do your wifely duty?” He tucked his hands behind his head.
“I won’t be your wife for long.”
She headed to the bureau and opened a laptop sitting atop it. In a moment, the portable printer she’d hooked up to a port spewed out several sheets.
She brought the sheaf over along with a pen and held them out. “Sign.”
He thought about batting it down, but he had a better idea. He took the contract and ignored her to peruse it. The document appeared very simple and straightforward. A divorce with no strings, only he liked batting at things. “This won’t do.”
“Why not?”
“Because you forgot a few things.”
Her brow furrowed. “Like?”
“Splitting of our property.”
“You keep what you have. I keep my stuff.”
“What about our friends?”
“We have no friends in common,” she reminded.
“What about income?”
“Why does income matter?”
“Alimony, of course. Whoever makes more pays it.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Deadly serious. I married you with good intent. I’d say that’s worth something.”
Her mouth rounded. “You expect me to pay you.”
When her hand suddenly moved, pulling forth a gun she’d tucked at the small of her back, he moved, avoiding the path of the bullet. The pillow he lay on didn’t fare as well. Feathers floated in the air.
She fired again even as he was diving forward, staying low to the ground. The third one grazed him before he tossed himself forward.
Before she could aim again, he’d snared her ankles and thrown her off balance. She hit the floor on her ass, jostling her, giving him the time needed to grab her wrist and hold her gun-toting hand immobile. He didn’t fool himself into thinking her tamed.
“I am not giving you a cent,” she hissed, spitting mad, and gorgeous.
“Then I’m not giving you a divorce,” he replied, yanking her close. “Wife.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“But that’s who you are. You’re my wife.” The word held a hint of a growl.
Her eyes dilated, and her breathing grew shallow. “I’m going to marry Simon.”
“Over my dead body.”
“If you insist.”
The knife prodded at his belly.
He didn’t care. He kissed her.
Chapter Seven
The touch of his mouth didn’t ignite anything because she was already on fire. The sensual slide of his lips only served to bring the heat inside her to a boil.
And then it was over.
“Thank you for not biting off my lip,” he said, pulling away.
“I was waiting for some tongue to do the most damage.” She licked her lips, and his gaze followed. It did nothing to ease the need inside her. She might have masturbated, but that tiny orgasm wasn’t what she really wanted. Not what she needed.
“You always did like to French kiss. But as I recall, you preferred my tongue licking another part of your body.”
She sucked in a breath because she did remember.
How dare he. Of course, he dared because he could. The man she’d met as Dean always managed to throw her off balance. The only man to do so.
Ever.
Which made it strange that she’d not killed him yet. He certainly deserved it for plaguing her. Knowing they were married and yet ignoring her.
Staying far away.
Not once trying to contact her.
Never asked for a divorce either, and she had to wonder about his claims that he’d cheated.
She’d been watching. Not personally, of course. But she had her ways.
According to surveillance, he’d not been with another man or woman. Nothing that could be proven at any rate. However, there were lapses of time where her reports had nothing to say, where he’d dropped out of sight. He could have been doing anything. Doing someone.
The very idea made her blood boil. What did it mean? She’d not pursued it or allowed herself to truly wonder. Until now.
Face to face with him, she remembered why she’d lasted the whole wedding before ruining what they had. He still drew her more strongly than the cheesecake in the fridge that Chef made fluffy sweet.
Her accidental husband was more addictive than the catnip her babushka had cultivated. On a full moon, it was recommended to not peek out any of the windows overlooking the garden as Grandmother tended to enjoy it still with her paramour of the moment. In dishabille.
Eye bleach worthy at best.
“Cat got your tongue?” he teased, still gripping her wrist. She could have broken free. Could have hurt him, or even killed him and done away with the need for a divorce.
He knew it, too. Knew what she was.
Meaning he intentionally goaded her with his demand that they remain together. It wasn’t about money, he had plenty. So, why?
She swayed against him, softening her stance and expression. “Perhaps instead of a divorce, you’re right. We could r
econcile. Give it a second chance.”
He stiffened, not just his posture.
“Kiss and make up?”
The word kiss brought her gaze to his lips. Before his embrace, she’d wondered if her mind had inflated her memory of the pleasure. It had been so long…Yet it proved better than she recalled. And if a kiss was better—
She yanked free, bolted to her feet, and spun away from him, annoyed she’d so easily fallen for his tricks.
“We can’t be doing this.”
“Why not? We’re married. We can do anything we like together.”
“We can’t be married, though. Don’t you see?”
“Because you want to be married to that sop, Simon.” He couldn’t stop the angry downturn of his lips.
“I don’t have a choice.”
“Call it off.”
“I can’t. I’ve already agreed.”
“You made me a promise first.”
“Under false pretenses,” she snapped.
“False for you, maybe. But it was real for me.”
“So real, you let me go.” Too late, the words slipped from her, revealing more than she intended. Bastard caught it.
“Are you upset I didn’t chase after you?”
“No.” Please don’t let him hear the uncertainty in that reply.
“I thought about it, you know, especially at first when I was angry.”
“Why didn’t you come for me?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I’m not the type to chase after a woman.”
“Just the type to be difficult when it comes to splitting up,” she retorted.
“I don’t easily give up what’s mine.”
“I don’t belong to you,” she hastily replied, even as her heart raced faster. There was something possessive in the way he said it that appealed to her baser instincts.
She was a strong, independent woman, but having him try and dominate gave her a certain thrill.
“Are you sure about that, baby? It’s been a while since I’ve licked you. Perhaps I should remind you what it’s like to be with me.” He eyed her mouth.
She hoped he couldn’t smell her arousal. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” he asked, looming over her. Making her realize how petite she was beside him.
Yet his size didn’t daunt her. A part of her believed he’d never hurt her. On the contrary, she had a suspicion that he’d kill anyone who tried.
“You keep eyeballing me like I’m a delicious meal you want to devour.”
“But I do want to eat you.” He winked, and she blushed again.
Damn her traitorous cheeks. She needed to regain the upper hand. “You do realize, if you’re not going to sign those papers, I am going to have you killed.”
“Not going to do it yourself? I thought you were the type to see a job through.”
“You’re not a job.”
“You’re right, I’m not. I’m husband to a dangerous woman. Beautiful. Deadly. Did you know that your number of kills is unknown?”
“On purpose, but I can say it’s more than a few.”
His lips took on a rueful cast. “To think I ever believed you were so innocent.”
“Not even close.”
“I can’t wait to see just how bad you can get.” It was then she realized she still held the knife in her hand. Yet she didn’t use it. She’d had it pressed against his belly and couldn’t shove it in. Frustration had her whirling and flinging it, sending it skimming past his head—which he didn’t move by a single hair—to embed in the wall behind.
“Why do you want to die?” she asked.
“Who says I do?”
“Because you keep goading me.”
“It’s called flirting, baby.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Get used to it.”
“Or else what?”
He moved fast, so fast she didn’t have a chance to escape his suddenly encircling arms. She didn’t fight, she waited to see what he’d do.
He didn’t do anything but flap his lips some more. It was getting frustrating.
“Why are you so afraid to be with me?”
“I’m not afraid,” she said breathily.
He leaned in closer. “Your heart is racing. Your panties are wet. And we both know if we kiss again, we’ll end up in bed.”
His mouth hovered close enough that she almost gave in to his whispered temptation. She was saved by a knock.
“Go away!” she snapped.
“Are you and your husband awake?” Isa shouted back instead.
“What do you want?” Natasha pushed away from him to glare at the door, madness warring with relief at the interruption.
“Daddy wants to see you. And Dean.”
“Why?”
Isabella didn’t reply, and Natasha cast a glance at her husband. Bare-chested, in shorts and nothing else.
“You might want to sneak out the back,” she noted.
“Afraid your uncle will shoot me?”
“I know he will if he thinks you’ll cause trouble.”
“And as a loving wife, that obviously bothers you.”
“Keep annoying me, Neville, and see what happens.”
“My name is Dean.”
“Not according to your legal records.” It was pure orneriness that had her calling him by his true name, Neville. It also helped with his already too sexy factor. “Get dressed and meet me in Uncle Vinny’s office.”
“What happened to me hiding?”
“It occurred to me that my uncle might be just what we need to solve our marriage dilemma.”
“Is being my wife such a bad thing?”
Being his wife was a bunch of stuff, starting with confusing.
He sauntered off to the bathroom rather than wait for a reply.
The smug arrogance of a lion, the wily nature of a tiger. He was the most extreme of both breeds.
Stomping did nothing to alleviate her frustration, but she did her best before knocking on her uncle’s office door. When she’d previously explained her marriage dilemma, she’d made it sound as if it were a drunken escapade. It should have been easy to handle. Instead, she’d brought the problem to her uncle’s home. She doubted he’d be impressed.
“Come in,” Uncle Vinny shouted.
She opened the white door with its simple inlay and stepped into an office more cluttered and messy than expected. The walls were an array of mismatched bookcases and filing cabinets. Filled with binders that held sheaves of numbers. Vinny worked as some kind of hotshot accountant type. He made sure the family company—the legal and illegal parts—stayed afloat and kept out of trouble with the government. Her babushka claimed he was a wizard with numbers. Father didn’t like Uncle Vinny but did begrudgingly admit the man knew his shit.
Uncle Vinny looked nothing as you’d expect. For beginners, he was blond, going on white, dressed in a light gray suit, no mustache, nothing Italian whatsoever about him. Was it any wonder her swarthy maternal grandfather had his DNA tested, not once, not twice, but five times?
Each time cost him a piece of expensive jewelry to a less than impressed Babushka. But the confusion was understandable given the rest of the family, including her mother, tended to be at least somewhat tanned and always dark-haired.
“You wanted to see me,” Natasha said when he looked up from a ledger.
“Ah, niece, such a pleasure to see you. Where is your husband?” He said it lightly, but she could see the irritation tugging his brow. He didn’t like unexpected changes to his routines.
“Dean will be along shortly. And you needn’t pretend. I am aware you know each other. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It was old news. Besides, Isabella was the one to dump him.”
Natasha found that hard to believe. “Sorry, I brought him here. I didn’t know where else to go.”
“A hotel comes to mind.”
“I needed to keep him close by until he signed the divorce papers,” s
he blurted.
“And, what? You couldn’t find a pen?”
“More like he won’t sign them.”
“Won’t?” Her uncle lifted both of his brows. “Didn’t you say you were going to shoot him if he refused?”
It took effort to not bite her lower lip. “I was going to. But then we were attacked.”
“By whom?” Her uncle immediately focused on the news.
She shrugged. “I don’t know. They got away.”
Vinny arched a brow. “Escaped you?”
“And me,” was the unhelpful remark by her husband as he slipped into the room. “Bastards blew up my cabana!” he exclaimed, exploding his hands. “Cost me a bottle of good whiskey, too.”
“The man is under attack, and you brought him to my house?” Vinny fixed her with a flat stare.
“I didn’t know where else to go.”
“Again, why couldn’t you stay at a hotel?”
She batted her lashes as she said, “Because you have much better security.” As her uncle glared, she continued, “And you love me because I remind you of my mother.”
Vinny sighed. “I assume you caught the assailants.”
“Not exactly,” she said, hedging.
Uncle’s wily gaze bounced between them. “Let me guess, you were too busy with your reconciliation.”
Vinny totally misconstrued the events. “Never! I still intend to divorce him,” she hastened to explain.
“Back to these attackers. Who are they? Who were they working for? Were they after him or you?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Dumbass over here thought he caught one, but they got away.”
“Shitty knots,” Neville said with a shrug, looking not in the least discomfited by the fact that he was being grilled by her uncle.
Vinny leaned back in his chair and steepled his hands. “While all that is well and good, I still don’t understand why he’s here.”
“I need him to sign the divorce papers.”
“But you just said he wouldn’t.”
“He doesn’t have a choice!” She scowled at her husband, who smiled as he said, “Says you. You’re the one who wants a divorce.”
“Don’t you?” Vinny inquired, gaze bobbing between them.
“Not really. I’d actually prefer if Natasha played the part of a real wife, then I wouldn’t have to deal with the single ladies trying to put a ring on this.” He held up his bare, left hand.