Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 56201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
I don’t care if he gets skin cancer, I really don’t.
He shrugs in a typically male fashion. “I don’t need it. My skin is darker, so—”
“So that gives you SPF 5 protection, tops, and the UV index is probably above 10 right now.” I fold my arms over my chest. “I’m not going up if you’re not covered also.”
He arches his eyebrows, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Already acting like a wife, are we?”
Fuck him. He can roast himself to a crisp for all I care. In fact, I hope he gets skin cancer and dies. I hope it happens tomorrow, so I can throw his sunburned body overboard and feed the sharks some human barbecue. Or better yet—
“Okay, I’ll do it,” he says, cutting into my bloodthirsty fantasies, and to my shock, he goes into the bathroom.
When he comes out a minute later, his face, neck, and arms have a distinct white cast that looks much more prominent on his tan, tattooed skin. There are also white smudges on the collar of his black T-shirt. The whole thing should make him look ridiculous, but it doesn’t.
He’s still the hottest, most dangerous man I’ve ever seen.
With effort, I look away. “Let me grab a hat and sunglasses.”
I step into the closet, grab the items in question—a wide-brimmed straw hat and a pair of oversized shades—and head toward the door. He follows, easily falling into step next to me as we exit into the hallway. We walk in silence, and I can’t help sneaking glances at him as we go up the stairs. For once, he’s not focused on me with his usual hyper-intensity. Instead, he seems lost in thought, his dark eyebrows pleated into a small frown.
Did something happen? If so, when? How?
Curiosity gnaws at me, but I hold back the questions. I don’t want to start a conversation with him, to pretend that everything is forgiven and forgotten. Because it’s not. What he did to me today is worse than storming Nikolai’s compound to kidnap me. Worse even than arranging our betrothal, though I don’t entirely understand why.
No, I’m not talking to him if I can help it. I may not be able to deny him my body, but my mind is still under my control.
“There you two lovebirds are,” a familiar voice drawls as we step out onto the deck, and I turn to see Ruslan climbing over the top of the ladder on the starboard side. He must’ve just taken a dip in the ocean because he’s dripping wet and dressed in nothing but a pair of swimming trunks.
Some devil takes a hold of me, and all of a sudden, I know the perfect way to get back at Alexei. Unabashedly, I stare at Ruslan’s naked chest and lick my lips, as if they’ve gone dry. It’s a nice chest, for sure, but it generates the same level of response in me as a marble statue would. But my husband doesn’t know that. He’s insanely jealous and possessive, and if I know him even a little…
“Take a dive. Now,” he growls at his brother in a tone that brooks no disagreement, and then he grips my arm and spins me to face him.
“What?” I ask innocently, batting my eyelashes for good measure as the sound of a splash reaches my ears. I guess Ruslan knows when to listen. “What’s wrong?” I continue in the same confused tone.
I have no idea why I’m trying to provoke my new husband. I remember his terrifying reaction the last time he thought I paid too much attention to Ruslan, and I don’t want to be subjected to it again. But at the same time, I want to lash out at Alexei, to make him feel at least a fraction of the devastation he’s forced upon me.
His face is midnight dark, his nostrils flared as he stares down at me. Fatalistically, I wait for him to tell me that I belong to him, that I’m to have eyes for no man but him. I wait for him to show his dominance over me in the most primitive way possible, but he doesn’t. Instead, he takes a deep breath, then another, and releases my arm.
“Don’t,” he says evenly. “Just don’t.”
I blink, too stunned to say anything as he goes under the overhang and prepares two lounge chairs, facing them away from the glare of the afternoon sun. As if summoned telepathically, Larson appears with two frosty, fruity drinks that he sets on the small table between the two chairs.
“Thank you,” Alexei tells him, pulling off his T-shirt and stretching out on one of the loungers, and Larson nods before disappearing to do whatever captain-y things he does.
I follow Alexei’s example, doing my best to keep my eyes off his naked chest as I arrange myself comfortably on my chair. By now, I’ve seen and felt every inch of Alexei’s hard body, so it shouldn’t be all that fascinating. But it is, at least if the low thrum of heat between my thighs is anything to go by. I cross my legs, trying my best not to squeeze them together, and close my eyes because that’s the best, if not the only, way to keep myself from ogling all those muscles and tattoos.