by Warren, Skye
“Do you have any family with you?”
“No, my guardian—that is, Liam isn’t—” She blushes, making her tan skinned turn a pretty plum. “I have a security detail from my guardian’s company.”
“They must be the ones requesting structural changes.”
She looks rueful. “I’m afraid we’re making a nuisance, and the tour hasn’t even started.”
“Don’t be silly. You can never be too safe.” I look out at the audience, the overwhelming blackness where thousands of people can sit. Someone could be there right now, and I wouldn’t be able to see them. A shiver runs down my spine.
We exchange phone numbers before I leave her to practice.
Behind the stage there’s a maze-like warren of hallways, most of the doors locked shut. It makes me wonder what’s behind them. And if any of them have that leftover stripper pole.
“Boo,” comes a soft voice behind me, and I whirl, my heart thumping.
“You scared me,” I accuse the Asher-shaped shadow behind me.
A low chuckle. “I saw you talking with the violinist.”
“We’re going shopping.” I glance at him uncertainly. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Shopping? No. You have my credit card.”
“It’s not really for buying things. It’s just girl time.”
“Buy whatever you want.”
I look away, my cheeks heating. “Great,” I manage, my voice breaking.
“Hey. What’s wrong?”
“It’s just that she’s so talented. And so young. I was raised to be a society wife, to host dinners and balls—and now you don’t even want that from me.”
He lifts my chin so I have to look at him. “Host whatever dinners and balls you want. I’m not going to stop you. I’m just not making that a requirement of being my wife. You’re not my fucking event planner.”
“Then what am I?” I ask, the haunting melody washing over me.
Asher basically bought me from my father, which felt like an insult. It occurs to me now that there’s another side. He could have approached me at any one of the galas or society events I attended. He could have asked me out at a coffee shop. Instead he made an offer I could not refuse, almost as if he feared I wouldn’t accept him otherwise.
His dark eyes burn with intensity. “You’re a young woman with your whole life to figure out what you want to do. Play a musical instrument or start a business? Adopt ten thousand cats? Try everything. Or nothing. You’re someone who saw a lonely girl and didn’t waste any time making her feel included.”
I shake my head, rueful. “Making friends. That’s not exactly a special talent.”
“It’s your talent, one most people wish they had.”
“Are we friends?” I ask softly.
“Friends,” he repeats, tasting the word. “No, sweetheart. You can make friends with every person in the city, but you come home to me. You sleep in my bed. What am I? You’re a hundred different things, a thousand, but most of all—you’re mine.”
EPILOGUE
The cherry blossom represents the ephemeral nature of life. It marks the end of winter and celebrates the renewal of spring.
Cherry blossom trees only bloom once a year.
They can’t be grown in a greenhouse or genetically modified to bloom at other times. Their beauty is both stubborn and rare, which makes Asher Cook determined to get them for me. We marry on a cool spring day in early April, a breeze ruffling the pink-white petals in my bouquet.
Branches form an arch over the aisle. The double doors are flung open, carrying in the pungent scent of fresh earth. There’s an ethereal feeling as I walk down the plush white carpet, between hand-carved walnut pews, toward the man I’m going to marry.
At first I tried to convince Asher I didn’t need such an extravagant ceremony, especially since I knew it would be him paying for the event—not my father. Papa walked me down the aisle; that’s the extent of his involvement in my life since that fateful night.
Gradually I came to realize that although I didn’t need a large ceremony, Asher did. He wanted the most beautiful wedding and he wanted everyone to see it, as if he had something to prove to them.
As if he wants no one to doubt who I belong to now.
So I did not complain when the guest list grew to five hundred in the largest cathedral in Tanglewood, with another few hundred to join us at the reception tonight.
After such a long day neither of us want to board a plane. We make our own honeymoon suite on the balcony of his bedroom, a plate of strawberries and brie and sesame crackers to eat, a bottle of Lambrusco to drink. Asher makes a project of painting me with the deep red liquid and then licking me clean—starting with my shoulder, the underside of my breast, my hip. He makes me twitch and sigh before he finally moves between my legs. He licks and licks, until I’m lost.
It’s too much, so he uses the bowtie from his tux to affix my wrists to the iron rail.
“Such a good little wife,” he murmurs, stroking my sides while I writhe in helpless surrender. There’s nothing I can do with my hands tied above my head, my thighs pushed wide by his muscled body. Even lean and hard as he is, he’s still impossibly large. It’s like being pinned down by a jaguar, all massive paws and ferocious eyes. “It’s your duty to take me now, isn’t it? To lie still and let me have you, whenever I want, for as long as I want—and you always fulfill your duties.”
His thumb swipes my clit, and I flinch, my hips rocking forward to seek more pressure. More or less, anything would be better than this. This glancing, quicksilver touch he forces on me.
“Please,” I whisper.
“You might have to suffer,” he says, his voice thoughtful. “That was part of the vows, I think. Implied by the honoring and the obeying. That you’d have to wait until I’m good and ready to give you my cock. No matter how wet you get or how loud you moan.”
A blunt finger slides through my core, dragging moisture up to my clit, where he taps me, as if pointing something out for my instruction.
“No matter how plump your little clit gets.”
“Asher,” I gasp, pressing my hips towards his hands. “I can’t—”
“Of course you can.” His tone is genuinely sympathetic. “You were built for this. Doing what your husband wants. Being a living doll for me to fuck and fuck and fuck.”
He’s going to drive me insane, and I think he might want that. It’s one of his kinky games—a new one, where I’m the dutiful wife and he’s the implacable husband. The role sinks into me, as soft as the blanket he laid down beneath me. Cool breeze wafts over my body, making my nipples tighten.
“If that’s what pleases you, husband,” I say, because it’s part of the game—but it’s more than a game. He’s right. This is what I was born to do. Bred to do. To be a good little wife, and the dark approval on Asher’s face, the desire in his eyes, is the only reward I need.
He lines up his cock to my sex, the hitch of his breath a secret sign that he isn’t as composed as he acts. Then he thrusts inside me with an uncontained violence, his hardness pushing through my swollen flesh, stretching me almost beyond endurance.
My mouth opens on a silent scream, fists tightening in the hold of his tie.
“Oh God,” he says, the words thick as honey. “You’re so fucking tight. I’m supposed to be gentle with you. I shouldn’t—”
His voice breaks as he thrusts again, reaching somehow farther, making me suck in a breath. I’m spread wide on the balcony floor, my hands stretching high, my thighs pressed almost flat to accommodate him. In every way, I’m the one who must surrender to him. He’s the one in control—and yet his lids are heavy, his lips parted. His hips move in an almost uncontrollable rhythm.
Something holds him in thrall, and I think that something is me. There’s a sweet power in knowing my body does this to him, renders him helpless, unable to resist.
The friction is unbearable and sweet, peaking in a climax that makes me squeeze around hi
m. Every muscle clenches and then relaxes into a slow melt—and still he keeps thrusting.
He fucks with reckless intensity, driving into me again and again. It’s a form of domination, the way he pushes over me, inside me. There’s also a sense that he’s searching for something. That the answers are inside me. He nuzzles at my breast, taking the peak between his lips, sucking and gently biting until I come again in a wash of scarlet pleasure.
And still he does not stop.
He needs something from me, his new bride. I’m not sure what, only that I want to try and give it to him. “I, June Li,” I murmur, my lips brushing his temple. “Take thee, Asher Cook, for my lawfully wedded husband.” These were the words I spoke in front of hundreds of people today—businessmen and lawmakers, underworld crime bosses and the mayor of Tanglewood himself. I spoke the words in front of God, but they didn’t ring as true then as they do now—saying them to my husband while he’s inside me, losing himself in my body, finding himself in the words.
He groans, his hands tightening on my hips. “More.”
“To have and to hold,” I say, more breath than sound as his thrusts speed up, his hips ramming into my body with alarming force, his cock impaling me deep. “From this day forward.”
“For better,” he says, his voice hard.
“For worse,” I answer, letting my softness enfold him. “For richer, for poorer.”
“In sickness and in health.” His breathless words are fervent—a promise muttered in the dark.
“As long as we both shall live.”
A feral sound enters the air. It’s Asher, and he bites down on my shoulder. The sharp pain makes me cry out. That’s how he climaxes, every part of his body holding every part of mine.
* * *
Thank you for reading HEAVY EQUIPMENT!
If you enjoyed this quick and dirty novella, you’ll love OVERTURE. Liam North got custody of the violin prodigy six years ago. She’s all grown up now, but he still treats her like a child. No matter how much he wants her.
One-click OVERTURE Now >
“Swoon-worthy, forbidden, and sexy, Liam North is my new obsession.”
– New York Times bestselling author Claire Contreras
OVERTURE
Forbidden fruit never tasted this sweet…
“Swoon-worthy, forbidden, and sexy, Liam North is my new obsession.”
– New York Times bestselling author Claire Contreras
The world knows Samantha Brooks as the violin prodigy. She guards her secret truth—the desire she harbors for her guardian.
Liam North got custody of her six years ago. She’s all grown up now, but he still treats her like a child. No matter how much he wants her.
No matter how bad he aches for one taste.
One-click OVERTURE Now >
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About the Author
Skye Warren is the New York Times bestselling author of dangerous romance such as the Endgame trilogy. Her books have been featured in Jezebel, Buzzfeed, USA Today Happily Ever After, Glamour, and Elle Magazine. She makes her home in Texas with her loving family, sweet dogs, and evil cat.
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Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. Except for use in a review, the reproduction or use of this work in any part is forbidden without the express written permission of the author.
Heavy Equipment © 2018 by Skye Warren
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