by Ava Lore
Bartered Bride: The Billionaire’s Wife, Part 3
Ava Lore
Copyright 2012 Ava Lore
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This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons either living or dead is purely coincidental.
Bartered Bride: The Billionaire’s Wife
by
Ava Lore
Part III
“I'm an idiot,” I moaned. “A complete and utter idiot.”
My best friend Sadie cocked an eyebrow and sucked on her cigarette. “I don't think that's ever been in doubt,” she told me. “You're not exactly the sharpest marble in the bag, Lis.”
“You're so mean,” I told her. Then her words sank in. “Wait, marbles aren't sharp.”
She smirked at me and blew a smoke ring.
“That's even meaner,” I complained. “My life is ending and you don't even care.”
Sadie rolled her eyes. “Your life isn't ending. You're just marrying some guy for his money.”
I threw a pillow at her,, which she dodged. “I am not.” I was marrying him to save my mom. And also because he seemed to have found my Orgasm Button. I'd told Sadie the first part, but not the second. It was too humiliating.
Tapping ash into the tray on my table, Sadie shrugged. “There's nothing wrong with marrying a guy for his money,” she said. “I'd do it.”
“You'd do a lot of things.”
“Shit yeah, I would. Besides, your little noble I'm so poor! act isn't getting you anywhere in your career, is it?” She gestured at the corner of my apartment where my latest creation languished, half-finished until I could procure the funds necessary to buy more clay. I'd had several shows, all at small galleries, and done well, but the bigger stuff required more money than I had, and more hustle than I was ever going to have after working ten hour days at the bar. I hated to think it, but Sadie might be right: marrying Waters would be good for my career.
And my sex life.
If only it didn't seem so tawdry.
“So when's the big day? What do I have to wear as your maid of honor?”
I wrinkled my nose. “He said it was going to be soon. I don't actually have a lot of say in it. He's taking me out to a quote-unquote specialty boutique in like an hour or something to pick out my dress and, uh. Underwear.”
That got Sadie's attention. “He's picking out your underwear?” she said. “What kind of marriage is this going to be?”
I glared at her. “The exact sort of marriage you'd expect from someone who wanted to buy a wife.”
She shook her head. “You can't even cook,” she said. “He could have gotten a much better wife from Russia. And she'd be, like, way hotter.”
“Yeah, fuck you, too,” I said. “Now you're definitely not going to be my maid of honor.” If I was even allowed to have one. Waters hadn't mentioned anything about friends or family yet and it was making me uneasy. I'd never been the sort of girl to dream about my wedding or pick out my bridal colors when I was thirteen or whatever, but I would have expected a little more leeway in the planning. As far as I knew, it was being 'taken care of.' And since I didn't really feel like a bride, I had to admit that it was kind of a load off my mind to just let things happen instead of struggling to assert myself in the face of... well, in the face of Anton Waters.
Sadie stubbed out her cigarette and got up. “Well, just make sure you don't forget the little people when you're rich and on the cover of all the tabloids, okay?” Sadie was one of my artsy friends as opposed to one of my bar friends, though she worked with paint and 'mixed media'—meaning trash she found in Central Park.
“Sure,” I said. “You wanna be one of my hangers-on? I'll be taking applications through the honeymoon.”
“I'd love to,” she said. “But you have to promise, or I'm leaking this to everyone we know.”
Fear drove through me and I sat up. “Sadie!” I said.
She held up her hands and laughed. “I know, I know. This was all in confidence. I promise. I just have to not get drunk between now and when you get married.” She appeared to think about this for a moment. “So it had better be in the next twenty-four hours.”
“Ugggh!” I said. “Out. Go to work.”
“Right,” she said. “Not all of us are lucky enough to marry money.”
“Out!”
She laughed as she exited my apartment and closed the door behind her, leaving behind the smell of cigarette smoke and her thick, heavy perfume.
I sat down on my futon and closed my eyes, trying to relax. Usually after I saw Sadie, I felt better about things.
This time, it didn't work. I still had that gut clenching fear crouching inside me. I sat up and took a few deep breaths and thought about calling my mother. I hadn't spoken to her yet, and I didn't know how to broach the subject of my pending nuptials. She still hadn't told me she was sick, but I could hear it in her weary voice whenever we spoke. The distance between us seemed to have yawned into a chasm almost overnight. Ever since my father showed up at my door, I hadn't been able to talk to her like I usually did, even though we had always talked, ever since I was a little girl. My father's constant betrayals had pushed us together, and she was my dearest confidant—or at least she had been.
Now she didn't even know I was getting married, and I found I didn't want her to know until the last second. Anton Waters was a rich jackass, just like my father. In fact, he was even more of a rich jackass. I couldn't bear the thought of her thinking I was making the same mistake she had—she was the one who had told me to flee our toxic household and not look back—and I couldn't even tell her that I was the one paying for her chemo treatments, since she didn't want me to know about them...
Shit. This was all my father's doing. He had a knack for screwing everyone else up just by existing. If he hadn't been such a shitty person none of this would be a problem.
I rubbed my hand over my face and sighed, glancing at my phone. Only about thirty minutes until I was due out front for the car and I hadn't even had a shower yet. I knew I should get up, but I couldn't. I sat on my futon for probably ten more minutes before I finally found the motivation to stand up, and then I had to rush through a shower and makeup before throwing on clothes—less theatrical than my prostitute get-up I'd tried over lunch three days ago—and clomping downstairs to find the car already waiting for me and Zachary standing by the back seat, looking bored.
“Sorry,” I said. He just smiled and opened the back door for me.
Anton Waters was already inside.
I hadn't seen him since he went down on me in the restaurant where we'd met to discuss our prenuptial contract. In persuading me to sign it, he'd ducked under the table and, hidden by the table cloth, fucked me with his tongue and fingers, wringing an orgasm from me that had been so powerful I'd screamed in front of everyone, even our waitress. The poor girl had been unable to look at me for the rest of the lunch, which Waters had insisted on eating through to the last course while I sat there, humiliated and horny.
Yeah. Horny.
That was the problem. I'd liked it just as much as I'd hated it. Who knew I was such a freak? Not me, and certainly no
t any of the boyfriends I'd had. Maybe they had been the boring ones.
And now Waters sat in the back seat of the car, reading something on a tablet and completely ignoring me. Fear and excitement danced together in my chest, whirling around and around until I couldn't tell one from the other. Lifting my chin, I clambered inside. Zachary shut the door after me, and I crammed myself in the corner, half-fearing, half-hoping Waters would slip across the seat to join me.
He didn't.
In fact, he didn't even speak to me. He was too busy frowning at the iPad in front of him, and when I dared to peek at it I found it was full of small type. Some report or other.
Ugh. Just like my father, though he'd dragged his briefcase and his stupid Wall Street Journal around with him all the time—when he'd bothered to be home, that is. Even when he was home with my mother and me, he wasn't really.
What a douchebag. And here I was, about to marry someone just like him.
My ardor cooled somewhat and I sighed, settling for looking out the window, though I didn't really see the buildings pass by until the car slowed and I found we were somewhere in Manhattan—NoLita, if I had to guess—outside a little boutique called, simply, Anna's. The display in the windows were tasteful and minimal, meaning I'd probably have to work for a year at the bar before I could afford to even spit on the sidewalk out front.
Beside me, Waters snapped his iPad closed and slid out of the car. I put my hand on my door, but I was surprised to see him come around and open it for me. I'd thought he let his servants do that sort of thing.
“Good afternoon, Miss Dare,” he said, formally. “I apologize for my preoccupation.” And he held a hand out to assist me.
I hated the way my heart leaped in my chest when I put my hand in his. The moment his skin touched mine, a frisson of desire shimmied down my spine, causing my back to arch and my pussy to warm. The sudden catching of breath in my throat thrust my breasts out, and I couldn't help the blush staining my cheeks.
“That's, uh, okay,” I assured him, my mouth and my manners running on automatic. Silently I kicked myself as I let him help me from the back seat and onto the pavement. “I know you're busy.”
He raised an eyebrow, as though inviting me to expand, and, stupidly, I did. Maybe it was the way those green eyes seemed to look right into my brain. I'd never seen anyone with such clarity in his gaze...
Or maybe it was my dumb clit making the decisions. Either way I started to babble. “My dad was always busy, too. He always had to be reading something for work, even at the breakfast table. Well, when he was around. I mean, it wasn't often, but it was enough, and he always had the paper out and got mad if I interrupted him...”
Shut. Up, I told myself fiercely. The last person I wanted to think about while semi-aroused was my fucking father. See? He always ruined things, even when he wasn't actually there.
“So... yeah. Whatever. You're busy. I'm not going to bother you,” I finished lamely.
He didn't even smile that faint little knowing smile this time. He just studied me.
Oh god. Why did he have to be so self-assured? Like he didn't care how awkward it made things: if he didn't have anything to say he wouldn't say anything at all. I hated him so much. Determined that I wasn't going to be the first one to say anything, I stared back at him. The other people on the street parted and flowed around us. I could feel them staring, mostly at Waters.
Who was I kidding? I broke first. “It's a good thing you're marrying me,” I said, “because I'll probably never find anyone else willing to put up with my blather for better or worse.”
At that, the smile flickered across his face and he reached out, drawing my hand into the crook of his elbow, like some kind of Victorian gentleman. One of my many weaknesses. Dammit.
“Miss Dare,” he said, guiding me toward the boutique, “you are going to be my wife. I want you to know that no business report is more important than whatever you have to say.”
Shocked, and a little gratified, I followed him into the shop. “I have some pretty inane shit to say,” I told him. “Are you sure you don't want to take that back before it's too late.”
He laughed, a rich, warm sound, and dropped my hand, only to slip his arm around my shoulders, as if we were a real couple. I hated that his laugh danced on my skin like falling rain. I loved it, too. “I promise I will listen to whatever you have to say,” he told me.
That sounded like a challenge, but curiously, I found I didn't really want to rise to it. Instead, I could only say, “Thanks.” Hesitantly, I slipped my own arm around his waist and felt the rock hard body beneath the crazy expensive suit he wore. In fact, it was the first time I had really touched him so intimately. He, of course, had been nose-deep in my pussy already, and yet I hadn't done anything to him, even though I kind of wanted to. Aside from strangle him, that is. Like, oh, kiss him. We hadn't kissed. Bite his throat. Run my fingers through his hair. Scrape my nails down his back. Suck his cock.
The fire he had stoked into a blaze in the little Italian restaurant flared up again, and I had to swallow around my suddenly dry tongue and review what I had just thought.
Suck his cock. I actually wanted to suck his cock. Like, really wanted to suck it, not just do it because I wanted him to return the favor, like I'd always done with my other boyfriends and one-night stands.
Jesus, girl, I thought. You have got it bad.
And I totally did, because now that I'd thought it, I couldn't unthink it, and the lean, well-built body next to me moved with barely-controlled energy, like a dancer or a martial artist.
Or a tiger.
I licked my lips and tried not to think about where our bodies met and instead tried to focus on what he was saying to the gushing young man in a fedora and vest who could barely bring himself to breathe the same air as Waters.
“Something elegant. Not too flashy,” he was saying.
Dimly I realized he was talking about my wedding dress. I frowned in disappointment. “I always wanted one of those huge tulle skirts,” I said.
The sales assistant nearly fainted with disdain, but Waters, to my disappointment, let his arm drop from my shoulders and stepped away. The loss of him was a physical pain. He turned and regarded me.
“Why?” he said simply.
I shrugged. “One of my nannies was addicted to telenovas.”
Waters gazed at me coolly for another moment, then gestured to the sales assistant. “Both styles. Bring one elegant wedding gown and one telenova gown.
“I don't think we have telenova gowns,” the assistant whispered, still clearly gagging on the idea.
“Whatever you have that is closest, then,” Waters told him and he scurried off, back stiff with indignation.
“Thanks,” I said, feeling stupid.
Waters shrugged. “Anything for my bride,” he said.
I shot him a sharp glance. Was that... had that been a glimmer of self-reflection?
No. Couldn't be.
I didn't have time to analyze his comment, though, because the shop assistant came bustling back almost instantly, towing two dresses behind him. I took them and thanked him, and turned toward the dressing rooms, which were nestled in the back of the shop with a lovely little platform for expectant brides to parade before their admiring public. I had no public. I wasn't even sure why I was trying dresses on, to be truthful. If Waters wanted to control what I was going to wear, he should have just gotten my measurements and been done with it.
My vague questions were quickly answered when Waters shouldered his way into the dressing room with me.
“Excuse me?” I said as he sidled inside. There was room, but it was supposed to be two women in here. And Waters seemed to take up so much more space than seemed possible by the physical limitations of his body. He loomed. He hulked. He was all I could think about. I clutched my Telenova dress in front of me and glared at him.
He sighed diffidently. “I thought you might require some assistance,” he said, as if his eyes we
ren't tracing over every inch of my body, staring straight through the armload of tulle I carried in front of me.
He was too close. The scent of his aftershave and, underneath that, the slight scent of man, delicately tempted my nose. We faced each other. My back was against the wall. The last time we had been in this position, we were on about minute five of our first meeting and his hands were already on my breasts. The memory rose, sudden and unbidden, and I pushed it down.
Green eyes glittered at me, and I knew he was remembering the same thing. Slowly, he licked his lips.
I swallowed and thrust the dress at him. “Here,” I managed to say, and started to undress.
He devoured me with his eyes. Every inch of skin revealed became fuel for the fire I saw building inside him. In his throat, breath rasped, and his body became taut as a bow.
I couldn't get enough air as my blouse slipped from my shoulders and my jeans slumped to the floor. I'd never felt so exposed. Standing there in my bra and panties, I felt as though he were studying my very bones. I wished he would reach out and grab me. I wished I could reach out and grab him.
He stood very still, watching me as my heartbeat began to race and my lips parted in anticipation.
“Lift your arms,” he instructed. “Close your eyes.”
Licking my lips, I did as he bade. There was a rustle of too much tulle and satin, and then he was dressing me in my bridal gown, sliding it over my head, guiding my arms through the off-the-shoulder sleeves. The skin of his fingertips was just the tiniest bit rough, and it sent my nerves dancing as they glided over the sensitive insides of my arms.
The thick material passed over my face, and he pulled it down.
“Turn,” he said.
I did.
Strong hands smoothed over my skin, arranging, plucking, settling. Then I felt the dress tighten and hear the hiss of the zipper as he slowly pulled it up.
The bodice became tight, tight, tighter, and I realized that the dress was a size too small. “Er,” I said, “I think I need a size up?”