Summer "Hi Summer." I glower past Saint at the obnoxious, douche-canoe, conceited waffle, rat’s arse of a man, aka my husband, and all the breath promptly leaves me. "You okay, there?" Saint frowns. "Of course." I make a sound de ep in my throat. "Why wouldn’t I be?" "You were muttering to yourself.” "He has that effect." I growl. Saint glances from me to Sinclair, who gives no sign that he’s surprised by my appearance. Asshole hadn’t waited for me this morning. He’d left, after laying out a dress for me to wear—he hadn’t forgotten that, of course. He’d ensured that one of the interns in the office had helpfully woken me up at a quarter to nine. Giving me enough time to drag my sorry arse out of bed, and into the shower. I'd raced to the tube and managed to reach the office by half past nine. "You could have waited and offered me a lift to the office." "Oh?" Sinclair folds his arms behind his neck, his legs up on the £5000 custom-made desk which, no doubt, he could r eplace in an instant. Like he could switch me out for another. Which he will do. The question is, when, and it is something I intend to find out. I take a st ep inside the room, and Sinclair smirks. My pussy instantly salivates. Hell. Something in that meanness of his glance, the way he rakes my body from top to bottom, undressing me... Just as he had made me take off my clothes less than nine hours ago. It already seems far in the past, in the cold light of the gray London morning. "And why, pray tell me, Bird, should I have delayed my very important meeting, while I waited for you to stop snoring?" "That was you, asshole." I pull out my phone, "I have proof. I recorded it." "What?" He frowns. I wave the device at him, "Guess none of your girlfriends dared tell you about your condition, huh?" "Are you fucking kidding me?" Saint chuckles, "Damn, this should be interesting." "Get the hell out of here." I snarl at the same time as Sinclair. "If this is what marriage does to people—" "Fake marriage." Sinclair echoes my indignance. "Right." He looks between us. "Bye, Summer." He lowers his voice, "I’d wish you luck, but I think that tosser needs it more than you." He heads for the exit; the door snicks shut. "Missed me, Darlin’?" Sinclair drawls. His rough tone tugs on my sensitive nipples, then slithers down to the valley between my legs. I shiver.
Damn the man. He’s unshaven, his hair mussed up as if he’s been running his fingers through it, or like he rolled out of bed and came here, which he had, considering I had his dick buried balls de ep inside of me less than 3 hours ago. My sex clenches. Hell. I fold my fingers at my sides. Why the hell does his potency only seem to magnify every time I see him? Considering the number of times he fucked me last night... Were the last two times my imagination? Had he actually gone down on me? He’d made me come, then kissed me, making sure I’d tasted our joined-up fluids. I flick out my tongue and his nostrils flare. Even across the room, I swear I can see his bic eps expand. His shoulders stretch the width of the custom-made shirt. No tie, of course. The first two buttons of his shirt are undone, revealing the sculpted chest underneath. The planes of which I had drummed my fingers over, had tugged on those dark hairs that arrow down to the part of him that is currently hidden. My fingers tingle. I’d felt him inside of me... Clearly, he is massive—my pussy throbs—okay, bigger, much bigger than I had expected, but I hadn’t had a chance to touch him, circle that thick muscle and find out for myself how big he really is. What? I may have been brought up by nuns, but my education is far from lacking when it comes—haha! No, don’t go there—to the opposite sex. Blame it on Karma. My sister has her faults, but some of her curiosity has rubbed off on me, enough to read her romance novels... None of which had pr epared me for the sheer dominance of the man who stalks me as I saunter into the room. Ke ep it casual, don’t blow this. Don’t show him how pissed you are at him. I walk up to the desk, ke eping my arms at my sides. "We had a meeting this morning." "I’m aware." "We could have spoken at home before you left." "You forget, I prefer to ke ep work things strictly in the —" he air quotes, "—official space." Jerk. What does that say about us? “I thought this, whatever-it-is-between-us, was work. You don’t seem to have a problem bringing this,” I wave my finger, indicating the space between us, “home.” He ignores me. "Speaking of, you are officially—" He checks the cheap Casio watch on his wrist—What’s the story there, huh? “—five minutes late." "I don't fucking care." "Language, Mrs. Sterling." "Fuck you very much, Mr. Sterling." He chuckles, "You’re welcome." He swings his legs to the floor, leans forward, then pours tea into a cup. He reaches for the sugar, adds a spoonful, another. He reaches for the third and I huff. "What?" He shoots me a glance from under those beautiful thick eyelashes. "If you ke ep poisoning yourself with that stuff, you're gonna be diabetic before you know it." "Oh?" He pauses, with the third spoonful of sugar poised above his tea. "You worried about me, hmm?" "Hardly," I swat away an errant strand of hair, "I'd have said the same to... any stranger I'd meet in the street."
"Really?" "You bet." "So you wouldn't mind if I.." he lowers his spoon toward the cup and I dart forward, grip his hand with enough force that the sugar spills in an arc on the table. "Oopsie." I lurch back. "Sorry, didn't mean to get so..." "Possessive?" He smirks, then stirs his tea with the now empty spoon. "Aggressive." I shuffle my feet. "I am beginning to see the appeal of both versions, in fact—" He brings the cup of tea to his lips, sips. The beautiful tendons of his throat flex as he swallows. "I enjoy all of your emotions, revel in every single insult that you throw in my direction." He licks his lips, and hell, I am instantly wet. I chafe my thighs together, shuffle my feet, then squeeze my bag in front of my chest, as if that will diminish the impact of his ridiculously sexy presence on me. He returns his cup to the breakfast tray. "Why don't you take a seat?" He pushes the platter aside. "I'm fine here." He frowns. "Even standing up, you are barely at eye- level with me—" Thank you for pointing out my lack of height, you r eprobate. "So, if you think this gives you an edge—" "God forbid," I look skywards, "anyone try to show up Mr. Big Bad himself." "Cute." "What?" "Your nickname for me." "Not a nickname, you perv." "But you enjoy that part of me so much." The blood rushes to my face. He peruses my features and his eyes gleam. "Why I do believe, my darling, that was a blush." "So, sue me." I blow out a breath, then drop into the chair. A burn sears my bottom and I jump up. "Ow!" "What’s wrong?" His brow clears. "I see." "You know nothing, Jon Snow." "Even I know that’s from Game of Thrones... That was too easy. You're slipping, Bird. Unless—" he frowns, then straightens, "Guess, your butt must really hurt, huh?" "Thanks for figuring that out, genius." I grip the edge of the desk, look to the right, the left, where there’s a rug, the kind used for pets, in the corner. Strange, had it been there the last time I came in here? Of course, I’d been distracted then. He stalks to the door, locks it. "What are you doing?"
“Making sure you’re okay.” "Of course, I am. I came here, didn’t I?" "Hmm." He prowls closer. His big body blocks out the sight of the room, draws in all the oxygen in the space. I try to breathe and my lungs seize. He pauses in front of me. "Turn around." "What?" “So I can check your behind." "You did it already last night." My cheeks flame. Damn it, why does his proximity reduce me to a spineless blushing female? I am better than this. I don’t need him. I don’t need a knight to ride in on his white horse and save me—which, by the way, he’s not. Though he probably has many Arabians in his stables— "Thirteen." "What?" "Arabians, and they are all white." My jaw drops. "What the—did you read my mind? You can’t read thoughts, can you?" I frown. "Is that how you win in business, you have a secret ESP-ish instinc—" "Stop. Bird. Your expressions are way too easy to read." He laughs. His entire face lights up. His indigo eyes lighten until they are almost sky blue. Something hot stabs in my chest. He’s a 100% obnoxious-as-hell, pompous prick... but damn, he’s a magnificent, utterly irresistible one, who somehow, somewhere, perhaps, has a flicker of humanness hidden de ep inside. Of course, you have to look for it with a blow torch... But hey, I’ve never backed down from a challenge, huh? He cups my cheek, "Go on, let me assess the damage I inflicted." "It’s nothing... really—" "Let me be the judge of that, hmm?" I twist my fingers in front of me, scan the space. "No cameras." "Yeah, that’s what you said last time." "You weren’t my wife then." I stiffen. Does he mean what I think he means? Can his alphaholiciousness actually acknowledge that the ceremony yesterday meant something to him? I grab a strand of my hair and bring it to my mouth, chew on it. He reaches out and gently tugs on the strand until I release it. "I promise I won’t take advantage." He holds up his hand, "Besides, it’s nothing I haven’t seen." Thanks for reminding me about exactly how you reduced me to a melting blob of jelly. I bite the inside of my cheek, glower at him. He merely smiles. He seems almost harmless... Almost. Yeah, and I am the Queen of England. I snort, pivot to face the table. He presses his big palm into the small of my back and I shiver. He applies pressure. I follow his lead.
I bend over the polished surface of his antique executive desk.