by Meghan March
“Holly—”
“Or that I’ve been ignoring dozens of missed calls and messages that I know are from her because she’s probably seen the news, and the only reason she’d be calling is for money?”
His arms wrap around me and squeeze me tight. “Holly, slow down. Breathe.”
His words highlight the fact that I’m breathing so fast, I’m liable to hyperventilate. Creighton rubs my back as I force myself to slow my breaths until my chest rises and falls in time with his.
Crap. I can’t believe I just spilled all of that. I’ve officially shattered any illusion that Creighton might have had about my background.
I pull away from him and stumble off the table. My soul is shredded with the telling of it, and I’m too raw to face him and his questions any longer.
“I think I’ve had enough sushi tonight. I need a shower to clean up now too.”
I don’t look him in the eye, and I don’t wait for a response. I turn on my heel and head for the bathroom.
His ominous words follow me inside. “This conversation isn’t over.”
I’m naked in bed, waiting for Holly, when I hear her voice coming from the bathroom. She’s singing. Even though it’s muffled by the water, glass, and walls between us, I can tell it’s heartbroken and haunting. I didn’t plan on that kind of emotional baggage from someone so young, but it’s impossible to ignore. She’s not broken, but she thinks she is.
The sound of her voice has me on my feet and crossing the room to stand in the bathroom doorway.
Steam fills the shower enclosure, but I can see her clearly enough to watch her rinse the shampoo from her hair. As the suds slide down her body, her voice grows quiet before she stops. I wonder if she realizes that I’m watching, but instead she presses both hands to the tile shower wall and leans forward.
In that moment, I know the water is drowning her tears, and I feel an urge I’ve never felt directed toward someone who wasn’t family: the urge to comfort. I dried my little sister’s tears once upon a time, but I never expected that another woman’s would affect me so acutely.
I want to walk into the shower and pull her into my arms, but I have a gut feeling that she wouldn’t welcome the knowledge that I’m seeing her at her weakest. Holly may be submissive sexually, but her inner fire and spark is driven by pride that I realize mirrors my own. She’s young, but she’s lived a hard life already.
I have the inexplicable desire to make it easy for her. To wash away the guilt and hurt in a way the water never will. But I don’t know how to do that. It’s something even my money can’t buy. And the very fact that I wish I could scares the fucking hell out of me in the way I’ve never experienced.
What is she doing to me? I want to own her, keep her, ensure that she’s mine, but I didn’t expect to feel like . . . like this. The intensity of my need would scare the shit out of her too.
I turn away when she pushes off the wall and reaches for the shower control to turn the water off. By the time she leaves the bathroom, I’m back in bed with a myriad of possible things to say running through my mind.
But every single thought flies from my brain when she walks into the bedroom, wet and naked.
Fuck, but the woman’s body is downright sinful. Full tits, small waist, flared hips, toned legs. Even as all of the blood in my brain rushes directly to my cock, I have enough brain cells firing to appreciate that she’s more than a traffic-stopping body. She also has invisible scars and insecurities that I need a map to navigate without triggering. I’m starting to comprehend the enormity of what I’ve undertaken when I said, “I do.”
She stops, and her teeth dig into her lower lip.
I wait, curious to see what she’s going to say. With Holly, I never really know—and I’m finding I like that unknown.
“Can you . . . help me out?”
I almost say that I’ll help her with any fucking thing she wants, but I don’t. “With what?”
She bites her lower lip again and lets it slide between her teeth. “With, um, the plug?”
A small smile curves my lips. “You didn’t take it out in the shower?”
A short, jerky shake of her head is her only answer.
“And why’s that, Holly?”
Her gaze drops to the floor, which won’t do. Sliding back into the roles that we’ve carved out is easier for me than addressing the events of tonight, and maybe that’s exactly what it takes to bring back the Holly I’m already addicted to.
“Look at me when you answer me.”
A blush I’m becoming more and more familiar with stains her cheeks as she lifts her gaze to mine once more.
“I thought since . . . you know, you put it in, that you should be the one to, um, take it out.”
She’s perfect.
“Good girl. If you’d taken it out without my permission, I would’ve had to spank that pretty ass.”
I toss the covers aside, swing my legs over the edge of the bed, and stand. Her attention immediately falls to my dick. I don’t correct her, because I like her attention there. She’ll be paying it a whole hell of a lot more attention in a few minutes. But first . . .
“Turn around and bend over.”
Her blush turns from a luscious pink to a fiery red.
“Excuse me?”
“Do I need to repeat myself? Because if so, your ass is going to be as red as your cheeks, sweet girl.”
Her throat works as she swallows. I open my mouth to repeat my command, but she spins on her heel and bends over before I can get out the words.
My hand flexes with the need to smack that heart-shaped ass. I don’t want to confuse her, but I can’t resist. I pull back and deliver a stinging slap just under the curve of her right ass cheek. She inhales sharply and starts to rise, but my hand at the small of her back holds her in position.
“Don’t move.”
“But—but why?”
I crouch and trail my hand down the side of her body, stopping to cup her breast and roll her nipple between my thumb and forefinger.
“Because I can, Holly. Because your body belongs to me. And because you want it.”
A shiver races through her and her nipple stiffens further, confirming my words.
I release my hold on her nipple and drop my hand to the back of her calf. I rise slowly as I drag my palm up the back of her leg to her ass. I find the base of the plug with my thumb and press against it.
I’m rewarded with another harsh intake of breath.
“I’m taking it out, but a bigger one is going back in tomorrow. I don’t have a lot of patience, and I can’t wait much longer to fuck this gorgeous ass.” I pull the plug out by the base and fuck her with it a few times before withdrawing it completely.
I turn toward the bathroom, but pause to tell her, “Be on your knees when I come back out. I’m going to fuck your mouth before we go to bed.”
She shivers visibly. My dirty girl.
I take care of the plug in the bathroom and return to find her waiting on her knees . . . just missing the mark of obedient because her hand is between her legs, and her eyes are closed as she rides out an orgasm.
I watch—raptly—because Holly in the throes of climax is the hottest fucking sight on the goddamn planet. But my enjoyment in watching her doesn’t mean I won’t enjoy punishing her even more.
“Couldn’t wait for me, I see.”
Her eyes snap open, and if it’s possible, her cheeks turn even redder. “I . . . I needed—”
“You needed to wait and take what I give you. And since you’ve already gotten yourself off, I guess that means you don’t need me to eat that pretty pussy until you’re so drunk off the pleasure, you can’t move.”
Crestfallen. That’s the word that perfectly describes her expression.
“But—”
“Keep that mouth open, baby, because you’re about to take my cock down that gorgeous throat of yours.”
Her jaw drops, and I smile.
“Perfect.” I ste
p toward her, cupping her chin and running a thumb along her lower lip. “Fucking perfect.”
My cock is straining up toward my navel, so I grip the base and bring it to her lips. Her tongue slips out and flicks the head.
“Grab my ass with both hands. I want you in position, and I don’t want you tempted to fuck yourself with your fingers.”
She complies, and I feed my cock into her mouth. She takes more than she did the last time, and I know this won’t last long. I bump the back of her throat, and she gags a little.
“Swallow me, baby. I want to feel your throat work me.”
Again, she complies, and I begin to thrust. In and out, reveling in the hot, wet heaven of her mouth. She takes me like a champ, her little moans sending out vibrations I can feel in my balls.
I have the primitive urge to mark her as mine. I feel my sac tighten, and I decide I’ll finish on her tits next time.
“Ready, baby?”
She nods, and her nails dig into the muscles of my ass. I fucking love it.
My orgasm shoots down from my spine, and she swallows every drop that I give her. She’s the perfect fucking woman. The perfect fucking wife.
I help her off her knees after I’m finished, and wipe the edges of her mouth with my thumb.
“You’re a fucking goddess, Holly.”
Her answering smile is shy as I back her toward the bed. When the back of her legs touch the mattress, she sits, and I drop to my knees.
“And it’s my turn to worship.”
And worship, I do. Until she’s come three times, and I can still feel the marks her nails left in my scalp as I settle into bed and wrap myself around her, tucking my once-again hard cock between her ass cheeks.
As I’m dozing off, one hand cupping a breast, I wonder if I’ll ever be sated with her.
Something about last night—the sushi, sitting on the table, telling Creighton about my past and the intimacy we shared after—trips my brain into a whole new side of married life. I’m afraid to trust it, afraid to rely on it. Skepticism is one quality I’ve got in spades.
So when I open my eyes the next morning, expecting to see an empty space in the bed beside me and yet Creighton is there, a tiny bit of that skepticism fades away. Maybe I am a little bit important to him. I thought for sure he’d be off running an empire right now, leaving me alone again at the earliest possible moment. His presence provides some hint of validation that I don’t want to admit needing.
As these thoughts roll through my brain, I realize it’s only the second time I’ve seen him asleep, the first being the early hours of Christmas morning. But that morning, I only chanced a glance at him before I hurriedly shoved all my stuff in my bag and tiptoed to the door. He was supposed to be nothing more than a way to forget that I’ll never share another Christmas Eve with Gran . . . and yet now he’s my husband.
Face relaxed in sleep, he looks younger than his thirty-three years. Without that blinding intensity and those piercing eyes focused on me, I’m able to study him at my leisure. Dynamic. Ruthless. Driven. Those are three words I’d use to describe him. Even in sleep, he’s probably dreaming about conquering something.
I know I should wonder about his motivations behind this whole marriage, but I find that I don’t care. Whatever it was that sent him on this wild hair, I should find it in me to be grateful. Otherwise, I’d be wearing another man’s ring and living an even bigger farce.
Glancing down at the ring on my finger, I realize that I like it there. Warmth creeps into my veins at the sense of belonging I feel.
Crap. I’m starting to get attached. Danger!
The terrifying realization is interrupted when Creighton’s eyes flick open and his gaze lands on me.
“Are you watching me sleep?”
I decide to go with the truth. “Yes.”
His lips curve up, and I catch a flash of his white teeth. I think it’s a genuine smile, but they’re so rare for him, I have to actually think about it.
When he stretches his arms overhead and the sheet falls away, his washboard abs rippling, I forget about the smile completely. How can a man who sits at a desk all day look like that?
My mouth opens before I can engage my brain. “Do you leave your desk to climb buildings or something? Seriously, those aren’t desk-jockey abs.”
His smile shifts into the smirk I’ve become very familiar with as his gaze jumps to mine.
“You’re saying you actually like something about me?”
Creighton’s eyebrow goes up, and I know he’s having fun with me, so I give it back to him.
“I’m saying I’d like those abs on any man, so I guess I’m lucky they’re yours.”
His eyes narrow at my words. “Any man?”
His tone is quiet and even more intimidating than normal. I have only that tone as the slightest warning before he rolls and reaches for me. My squeak of surprise fills the room as he draws me closer and pins me beneath him, one forearm on either side of my head.
“There are no other men when it comes to you, do you understand me, Holly? None. You belong to me.”
Whoa. Holy possessive alpha-male alert, Batman.
I push up on my elbows, bringing my lips within a breath of his. “As long as that means there aren’t any other women for you, then we have a deal.”
“You think you can bargain with me?” Every movement of his lips brushes them across mine.
“I’m sure going to try,” I reply, my daring knowing no limits this morning.
“Sassy girl. You know that just makes me want to teach you a lesson, right?” His tone is a low growl, and his lips continue to tease mine with the hint of a kiss.
Untangling one of my arms from beneath me, I reach up and bury my fingers in his dark hair. “Then what are you waiting for?”
His lips crash down against mine, and words cease to be necessary.
Creighton leaves the penthouse to head to work around ten a.m., and when he promises that he’ll be back to get me by seven, I actually believe him. Maybe it’s the look in his eye when he left the bed that clearly said he didn’t want to leave me there alone. It’s like something finally clicked, and like a train, we’ve shifted onto a different track. One where maybe we can figure out how to coexist peacefully.
When I finally drag myself out of bed, I shower and breeze through my morning routine, dressing in some of the most casual of the new clothes in my closet. Glancing at the TV, I think about turning it on, but really don’t want to know if my marriage to this complicated man is still the top story.
Creighton promised days ago that if I just trust him, he’ll take care of the press side of things, and I shouldn’t worry because it’s a pointless waste of energy. I decided he was right and just buried my head in the sand. If a billionaire can’t stop them from saying what they’re going to say, how can I? It’s wasted effort.
A voice calls out from the entryway, distracting me from my thoughts.
“Mrs. Karas? We have a delivery for you at the request of Mr. Karas.”
Mrs. Karas? It sounds so foreign that it takes a moment before I realize whoever is here is looking for me. I look down at my gray long-sleeved thermal and black leggings, and wonder if I should run back into the bathroom and lock the door.
Screw it. I am what I am, and that’s all I’m going to be.
I leave the bedroom and head into the living room. Whoever it is didn’t come in and make himself at home, so I continue into the entryway. A uniformed doorman stands just inside the door, looking slightly uncomfortable as he holds a large rectangular box.
“Oh, excellent, I was afraid I might have entered at an inopportune time,” he says, holding out the box in my direction. “Mr. Karas specifically requested that I bring this inside when it arrived. Where would you like me to put it?”
What in the world?
“What is it?” The question pops out before I have a chance to think.
He smiles kindly, but with a lopsided tilt that you’d give a clum
sy puppy or small child. “I don’t know, ma’am. You’ll have to open it and see. Where would you like me to put it?”
Duh. Of course he doesn’t know.
“On the . . . coffee table is fine.” I point to the living room as I stammer over my words. I almost said dining room table, but even the thought of it reminds me of what we did on that table last night, and it seems obscene.
I realize too late that maybe I should have tipped the doorman, but he’s already out the door and I’m left alone with the box.
Cautiously, I study it like it might contain human body parts, because that’s how I think in terms of measurement.
Trunks of cars? How many bodies can you fit in there?
Chest freezers? Same thing.
Creepy, right? Maybe I was a serial killer in another life, but I’m hoping not. Hopefully it’s just a country thing.
I use my fingernails to peel back the tape and tear the cardboard flaps open. When I see the black guitar case, I freeze, and my mouth goes dry.
He didn’t. Oh, but he did.
Like I’m opening a jewelry box containing diamonds the size of my fist, I flip the latches and lift the lid. My chest tightens as the breath I was holding whooshes out.
I reach down, almost afraid to trail my fingers along the pearlescent turquoise surface of the most beautiful guitar I’ve ever seen. With one fingertip, I trace the edge until I run up to the word Gibson. It’s similar to the one I played at Rudy’s the other night, but instead of black and bottom of the line, it’s the top-of-the-line model and my favorite color, which Creighton couldn’t have known.
As the iridescent flecks of paint glitter in the light, I can only picture how amazing it’s going to look onstage.
I have to hear how she sounds, and instantly names start spinning in my head, because she has to have a name. Something feminine and kick-ass all at the same time. Eliza Belle. Okay, it’s got a little country twang to it, but since that’s what I’m going to be rocking out with on her, I think it’s perfect.
I lift Eliza Belle out of her deep purple velvet-lined case and hold her out in front of me. Perfection. Absolute perfection. How did he know?