Olivia It doesn’t even take twenty-four hours before Hugh, Deena and Brielle launch their
counterattack. I’m ready for it, but like Mike Tyson said, that doesn’t lessen the impact
when it hits you right in the face. I stare at the online tabloids’ “articles” that Simon
forwarded after Liam and I returned from Beverly Hills last night and start pacing in the
bedroom. Using those trashy publications, Hugh, Deena and Brielle raised three questions
about my marriage: why so rushed, why so hushed, and why so impulsive? They all add up
to one thing: Olivia wasn’t making a clear-headed decision. The marriage might not even be
valid. The tabloids claim that Liam’s and my marriage has to be illicit or at least
questionable. Why so hurried otherwise, why the courthouse venue for somebody of Liam’s
stature and social standing? His brother Rhys married in a small ceremony, but it was an
actual ceremony. Surely there must be something fishy about our entire situation. Perhaps
a figurative shotgun held to Liam’s back? And there are personal attacks as well.
Apparently, I’m a horrible human being who played with Tyler’s heart, then dumped him
when I found a better catch in Liam Kingswood. They even created a detailed profile on my
husband. Thankfully nothing they could come up with is embarrassing, although they
brought up his parents’ lifestyle five times, complete with judgmental snickers. Bastards.
They can attack me. After all, this is my doing. But they don’t get to go after Liam and his
family. That’s off limits. Strong arms wrap around me from the bed as Liam pulls me onto
his lap and props his chin on the crook of my neck. “What are you glaring at?”
“Somebody touching what they shouldn’t have.” He frowns. I feel his gaze landing on my
phone screen. “Are these assholes saying crap about our marriage?” “Yes. They aren’t
completely wrong to doubt—” “They’ve got some balls, don’t they?” I clear my throat. He
might not want the reminder that this is a contract marriage negotiated by our lawyers. “It
isn’t the tabloid writers, it’s Hugh. Or, more likely, Deena and Brielle. They’re the type to
know these people. Hugh is too busy buying stuff to make himself appear important.” I
scroll down and scowl at the third article, which specifies that I must marry and have a
baby to take control of my mother’s trust. Therefore, there couldn’t have been anything
pure about my marriage to Liam, and he’s just a puppet being manipulated. I narrow my
eyes. Hugh and his family must’ve leaked it. Not that there’s any point in confronting them
because they’ll deny everything. “You’re a puppet being manipulated,” I tell Liam. “Yeah, I
saw. I’m heartbroken.” He sniffs exaggeratedly, then gives a pretend sob. “I just don’t know
what to do with my fractured little puppet heart.” He turns me around and tosses the phone
on the bed. “Maybe you could make me feel better.” “Want a kiss?” He dips his head and
gives me a peck. “Mmm. Nice, but I think we can do better, don’t you?” My heart aches as I
look into his bright eyes. He’s acting like none of what’s being published bothers him,
although it seems like it would have to. Then again, people who hurt the most are the best
at hiding it. I lean over to kiss him properly. His phone vibrates with Stravinsky’s Rite of
Spring. He sighs. “Shit.” “What’s wrong?” “Grandma. I’ve gotta answer this or I’ll never get
any peace.” He thumbs the phone on. “Yes, Grandmother.” “Liam Pyotr Kingswood!” The
tinny voice comes through loud and clear and I wince. Her stiff diction makes what she’s
saying sound extra harsh. So this is the woman her grandsons call Czarina. “What is the
meaning of this!” “The meaning of what, specifically—”
“Everything! What they’re saying. You’re married? To whom? Nobody worth mentioning,
obviously.” She shoots one question after another without giving him a chance to speak.
“Grandmother, you don’t have to be rude.” Liam’s tone grows hard. I shake my head at him.
No need to fight with his grandmother over me. But he shakes his head back and mouths, I
know what I’m doing. “Rude? Rude? I’m being factual,” Czarina says. “Does she deserve my
respect? Of course not. If she did, you would’ve brought her to me, introduced her like a
proper fiancée. Even Rhys brought Max to meet the family before he married her.” “You
mean the dinner where she was insulted?” By you isn’t said, but it’s obvious from his bland
expression and raised eyebrow. “No one was insulted. It’s simply that her background was
rather subpar.” “Well, I married a Whitmore.” Liam says it as though that explains
everything. And maybe it does. A woman nicknamed Czarina must have certain
expectations. She pauses for a beat. I open my mouth, ready to tell her who I am since she
probably doesn’t know all the old-money families in Los Angeles. Not that I care much about
my pedigree, but anything to get this woman off Liam’s back— “Olivia Whitmore Desmond,”
she says. “Yes,” Liam says. “Well. I suppose you’ve done better than your brother. Even if
that other girl did bid a billion dollars for him.” Liam rolls his eyes. But the woman isn’t
done. “So what precisely is wrong with this particular Whitmore that your marriage had to
be hidden?” “Might’ve been me who’s the problem,” he says. “Ridiculous. You’re a
Kingswood. And still practically a baby. Has to be that woman.” If Liam were a cat, the fur
on his back would be standing. I run a soothing hand over him. She continues, “You’ll bring
her to meet me and your grandfather tomorrow at the mansion, of course.” “I have to work,
Grandmother.”
“Perhaps you should’ve thought of that before marrying some... person.” Liam’s jaw
tightens. He opens his mouth, but the line’s already gone dead. “Do you think she’ll
consider me high-class enough?” I ask, half- teasing, half-gauging his reaction. “Does it
matter what she thinks?” Liam asks. “Shouldn’t it? She’s your grandmother.” I don’t care
that much about her opinion of me, but he has to deal with her long after I’m gone. “Yes,
but you’re my wife.” The firm declaration leaves me unable to respond. He dips his head
and slants his mouth over mine. I part my lips to let him in, stroking his tongue, then
sucking on it. A low groan vibrates in his chest as he pulls me close. Fire burns in my belly,
heats my blood. A suddenly surging libido leaves me breathless. When did I become so
responsive to male need? Men are just necessary distractions in life, but with Liam, it’s
more than that—he occupies a big space in my heart. A languid fever spreads over me, and I
slowly fall back on the bed. He shifts, pinning me just like he did last night. I push my
fingers into his hair and de epen the kiss. His impatient fingers run down my dress,
searching for the zipper. I arch my spine and push my hand behind my back. His hand joins
mine, and I flip over, so we can tug it down together. My dress parts, and the cool evening
breeze tickles my bared back. “No bra again.” “No.” He pulls the dress all the way down. I
shiver when the silky fabric glides over my bare ass. An audible inhale. “And no thong this
time.” “No. Lines show.” It’s just silk skimming my skin. I’ve felt it countless times, but the
flesh between my legs clenches, and my clit aches. “Cold?” I bury my face in the mattress
and shake my head, caught in a dilemma. Anticipation is making me quiver, not the
temperature. But admitting that feels like I’d be baring something I shouldn’t... and denying
it would be a lie. I don’t want to lie to him.
His dark chuckle sends another wave of tremors down my spine. He moves my hair aside
and presses a hot kiss on the base of my skull, then trails his mouth all the way down my
spine, a kiss on every bump. Each touch sends a rising ripple of need through me, and I bite
my lip to contain rising whimpers. He stops where my butt begins and nips the skin there. I
jerk with a gasp. He gives the spot a soothing lick. “Good girl. Let me hear you.” Exc ept I
don’t want him to hear. I don’t want to be loud and demanding. I just want him to give me a
baby. But saying it would shatter the moment. My heart knows it, even if my head wants to
insist it’d be a good idea to ke ep things neat and clear in order to avoid misunderstandings
and heartache. His teeth and tongue and lips move over my butt, exploring with the
thoroughness he demonstrated last night. I want to squirm so badly, do something to
relieve the pressure building between my legs. Who would’ve thought a butt could be this
sensitive? The aching emptiness between my thighs torments me until I’m covered in a fine
sheen of sweat. I search for something to ground me, only to find cool bedsheets. The
ocean’s pounding provides a slow counterpoint to Liam’s ministrations. I fidget, moving my
hips in a desperate search for release. But Liam ignores my silent plea. Instead, he sneaks a
hand under me and strokes my clit with just enough pressure to send white-hot streaks
through me without doing more. He has to feel how wet I am. The sheet underneath is
growing damp, but he seems oblivious. Suddenly it all feels achingly unfair. “I thought you
wanted to give me lots of orgasms.” “You’ve been pretty quiet. Wasn’t sure what you
wanted.” His shallow breathing betrays his calm words. “Asshole.” “Husband.” “Not
mutually exclusive.” He punishes me with a long stroke of his fingers along my folds, the
tips dipping briefly into my pussy. I grit my teeth. Does he think he’s the only one who can
be sneaky and tease? I push myself up on my knees, shoulders low, and arch my back. He
bites back a curse, and I laugh softly, then glide two fingers down my slick
track, from the clit all the way to the pussy. He grips my wrist. “That’s mine.” “Then maybe
you should fill it up.” “Olivia.” It’s a warning. “Your wife is needy. Do something about it.
You know, like a husband.” His hand around my wrist tightens, but not enough to hurt. I can
practically hear his control snapping. Every nerve ending prickles with suspense as his
zipper hisses. His fingers dig into my pelvis, and his overheated cock runs along my flesh.
Oh yesss. My toes curl. This is it. I push against him, daring, encouraging—he drives into
me in one powerful stroke that makes me shake from the invasion. My fingers twist the
sheet, my whole body tensing as white-hot pleasure rips through me. He feels so good
inside me, so big, so pulsing. Just having him buried inside makes me feel alive. He starts to
plunge in and out, his rhythm quickly becoming fast and relentless. Every time our flesh
slaps, an electric thrill races all the way to the top of my skull. I move with him, desperate
for a release. His fingers dig de eper into my hips, the gesture possessive and proprietary.
“Mine,” he growls under his breath as he pounds into me. An orgasm builds, like a tsunami
about to break. Air catches in my lungs, and I fight to breathe. When he thrusts into me at a
particularly sharp angle, my vision goes white as I scream. “Fuuuuck,” he cries, his voice
guttural. He abruptly pulls out, his length slapping the crack of my ass a nanosecond later,
and hot fluid hits my back. He shudders, rides out his aftershocks and then spreads his cum
all over my back, like an animal marking its territory. He didn’t come inside me. I should be
upset—this is about a baby. But as he slowly relaxes, the fingers of one hand still holding
my hip firmly, I can’t think of a single reason to complain.