“Just because she likes the same bizzaro crap you do doesn’t make her your soul mate.”
-500 days of Summer. Director: Marc Webb Sin "She's late."
I crack my neck, shift my weight from foot to foot.
"Where the fuck is she?" I rub the back of my neck, "I hate being k ept waiting."
"Better get used to it, old chap." Saint smirks from his position by the window.
"The fuck is that supposed to mean?"
"Simmer down."
"Don't tell me what to do," I grumble, begin to pace.
It’s not that I am uncomfortable... Okay, maybe a little.
Not because I am the cynosure of all eyes. I thrive on the attention. But the fact that I am here, cooling my heels, in
front of the people who know me for always being in charge, the one who calls the shots and ensures everything
always runs to plan—that she is making me wait?
Unacc eptable.
This woman is taking advantage of the fact that I can’t do much about it. Not yet, not right now in front of the
group of people assembled in the back garden of my house.
Summer loves this space—I'd caught her walking among the flower beds, her head raised to the sun to catch the
sun rays—and no that's not why I chose it as the venue for the nuptials. It was practical. That was the only reason...
right?
I rub the back of my neck.
"Good thing it’s not raining, huh?" Saint stares up at the clear blue skies.
"So that’s what we’ve been reduced to talking about, the weather, huh?"
"I'm being considerate of your pride." He shoots me a sideways glance. "Better unlearn that attitude of yours. It’s
downhill all the way from here."
"Shut your trap, you fuck."
His grin widens, "This is only the beginning, her making you wait at the altar. When you’re enjoying marital bliss,
don’t forget about the reason why you embarked on this trip."
"You have it all wrong."
"Do I?" He arches an eyebrow.
I drag my finger around the collar of my shirt.
A trickle of sweat runs between my shoulder blades.
Could do with some cloud cover about now. But, of course, on the one day that I’d counted on the weather
behaving per norm, everything has to turn out to be as surprise. I glance at the watch on my wrist. She’s fucking
late.
"Fifteen minutes." Edward’s voice interrupts my thoughts.
I peer up at him. "Sixteen minutes now."
"She’s the bride."
"It’s a fucking pretend wedding." I lower my chin.
"Not from where I am." One side of his lip arches up.
The Father is enjoying himself.
"Don’t get too used to it." I growl.
"I don’t know, from where I am, it’s a wonderful sight, seeing you all uncomfortable, Sin."
"Won’t last forever. And I demand a 25% share of the profits of FOK Media."
"No way." Edward shakes his head.
"There you are." Saint snickers. "Wondered how long it would take for the asshole part of you to show up.
"It was never gone. I had it temporarily shielded out of deference to the rest of you."
Edward frowns. "Here I thought your bride was finally beginning to round off your edges."
"Never." I crack my neck from side to side, trying to loosen the muscles that have somehow knotted themselves
up. Where the fuck is she, anyway?
I glance at my watch again. "Seventeen minutes." I breathe. "No one... No one has k ept me waiting this long."
"There’s always a first time." Saint rocks back on his heels.
"Wait until you stand in this position, dipshit."
He chuckles, "Never gonna happen."
"Never fucking say never." I grumble.
"Think you can refrain from swearing for another few minutes?" Edward stares past me, then stiffens.
An electric tingle runs down my back. She's here.
Silence descends. A complete and utter stillness. My skin tightens. My throat closes. I should turn, I should. I stare
straight ahead. There’s no music—my choice. This wasn’t supposed to be a fucking happy occasion. It is a
formality. I needed enough gravitas to convince her old man, who is about five minutes away from the house, so
Peter has informed me. I’d timed this down to the last detail. Good thing they’d been stuck in traffic and had taken
a little
longer than expected to arrive. That’s how much to the last detail I had orchestrated this little circus; the only thing
I hadn’t expected was for my bride to screw it all up—back up a second. Not my bride—my business partner. No,
hostage, in this little arrangement that will ensure I can finally put the ghosts of my past behind me and... Her scent
envelops me. Cherries and caramel laced with that mysterious note of anticipation. A uniquely feminine scent that
could belong to only one woman. Her.
Don’t turn, don’t.
I pivot, and every muscle in my body tenses. All of my senses hone in on her. My vision narrows; the blood drums
at my temple. She didn’t. No way.
A long line breaks through the slit on the skirt that runs to mid-thigh. The lace and chiffon clings to the curves of
her waist, nipped in to show off that impossibly tiny circumference, that begs me to wrap my hands around her
body and haul her close; before I place her across my lap and spank that luscious butt for what she’s done. That
dress... She doesn’t wear it, she owns it. It is her.
The fact that it is a neon pink sets off the color of her hair that pours in glorious waves around her face. Bold.
Daring. It personifies that streak of sassiness that she tries so hard to hide, and which slips through the cracks in
her facade anyway, especially when I push her. She can’t control it. No more than I can rein in the desire that
rushes to the fore. My groin hardens. My dick twitches. I take in the proud thrust of her breasts, ensconced in the
delicate lace that runs up her chest, and over one shoulder.
I bet if she turns around, I’ll see the plunging dip of the dress at the back. My fingers tingle. How dare she exhibit
herself so?
Next to me, Saint draws in a sharp breath.
I don’t need to turn to find out that he’s turned on. All of my friends—no, strike that —none of them deserve to be
called anything exc ept my most hated acquaintances because they’ve seen her in that dress.
I want to tear the fabric off of her, bury my nose in the cloth and drag her essence into my lungs. Right before I
spin her around, bend her at the waist and claimed her for myself. Imprint myself in every orifice of her body, until
every pore on her skin oozes with my sperm. Fuck.
"Who is she?"
"What do you mean?" I growl. "She’s my bride."
"Not her." Saint jerks his chin. "The other woman, in the golden-brown sheath who just walked in."
The hell is he talking about?
There is no other woman here exc ept the siren wrapped in that delectable dress that I am going to ensure will be
burned. Only so that she’ll never tease me again with the hint of flesh that peeks from between that slit as she takes
a st ep forward. Another.
Summer’s gaze locks with mine, holds.
Her hips sway under the silky soft fabric. Her cheeks are pale, despite the blusher. Good. I narrow my gaze and her
throat moves as she swallows. She is within a foot of me when I glare at her. Her pupils dilate. Her chin trembles.
She pauses.
Don’t give up now, little Bird. Come closer. Closer.
She inches toward me. Her scent de epens. The pulse at the base of her throat flutters with such speed that I am sure
she is not only afraid but also aroused. As turned on as I am in this instant, my cock jumps forward, and I widen
my stance to accommodate my arousal. Bet it’s clear to the rest how aroused I am, but what-bloody-ever.
She takes the final st ep that brings her within a few inches of me. Nervousness vibrates off of her. She blinks and
the chemistry between us seems to ratchet up. Takes another st ep, then pitches forward.