Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
“We’ll talk about this in the morning.”
Cool body, hot head.
“Get fucked,” I announce, rolling to my back. My legs lie over the side, my torso raised as I rest on my forearms. “I’m going, and there isn’t a thing you can do to stop me. Unless…” My gaze drinks him in. Black pants and shirt. Clothing, hair, eyes, and mood all from the same color palette. “Do you have a better offer to make me?”
“So this is what it’s all about?”
“I don’t want the carrot anymore.” I drop my gaze deliberately. “I want the stick.”
“You’re so transparent.”
Despite this being my plan, discomfort pricks at me. “Yeah? Well, you’re boring.”
His head twitches back—just a little, but I see it.
“Boring!” I say again, louder now.
The mattress bounces as his big hands land next to my head. Not one part of his body touches mine, though his lips are just an inch away.
“You might look like a dream, princess, but you are a nightmare. Hell in a black dress and fuck-me heels.”
“I’ll keep them on if you want.”
“What the fuck am I doing?” He jerks away, then he’s on his feet. Moving away, moving back. Raking a hand through his hair.
“Give in,” I demand, lifting my chin. “Please,” I add, my tone softer as I slide my hand down my body. It takes every ounce of courage I possess to let my legs fall open. To curl my fingers under the hem of my dress. “I know you want me.” My body thrums with a heady mix of anticipation, angst, and want, as I drag the hem higher.
“Stop.” His jaw tightens, and his lips firm, but his eyes? They tell another story.
They covet.
“You want me. You want this,” I hiss as I press my hand between my legs. “Don’t be scared to touch me.”
“I’m not—”
“Liar. Ahh…” I drop my head back and undulate into my hand. “Come and feel how I ache for you.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying, what you’re asking for.”
“I know you think I’m broken, but I’m not.”
“That’s not true.” He swings away, half pivoting back. “I don’t think that.”
“Then give me a reason to stay, Raif.”
“You’re going nowhere,” he growls. “We have a contract.”
“We don’t have shit. But we could.”
“My life was so fucking simple before you.”
“Sorry you got the wrong sister,” I whisper as my eyes flutter closed—not because I’m touching myself, enjoying myself, but because it hurts. It all hurts.
I control the situation. I control the narrative. I say what happens.
I repeat my silent mantra, not really sure I believe it at this point.
“I got the right sister,” he says eventually. “I just don’t deserve her.”
My heart quickens. Maybe I’m hearing things. I know I’m not. It was an inadvertent truth, a piece of himself, of his feelings, that he hadn’t meant to share.
I turn my head and look at him, really look at him. Poor Raif. He looks so wretched.
“You owe me,” I whisper, my eyes never leaving his. “And I want my wedding night.”
35
RAIF
I want my wedding night.
I want it, too. More than she’ll ever know—than I can ever let her know. She deserves better than this. Better than me.
“I owe you shit,” I grate out, turning from all that is lovely. Spread out on my bed.
“You’re a coward,” she whispers.
And she’s right. I’m afraid if I have her—have her under me—I will crush her. I can’t be her rock, the thing she leans on. But I will be her launching pad. I’m her building, and I’ll point her to the sky because she deserves so much better.
But for now, we have this, each of us fulfilling our roles.
“Think what you like,” I say, reaching the door as I fight the instinct and allow my feet to carry me in the opposite direction.
“You won’t touch me because you’re afraid. You think I’m damaged.”
My heart halts. Calcifies. As do my fingers on the handle.
“You’re worried you won’t be able to put me back together.”
“Stop. Just stop. You’ve got it all wrong.” I hang my head. Why does it have to be this way?
“But I don’t need you to fix me. What I need is for you to fuck me.”
“You don’t know what you’re—” I swallow back my words, clamping my lips shut over them.
“Finish what you were going to say. I can’t extrapolate.”
“No.”
“Fine, but know that if you walk out of that door, we’re over.”
I angle my head, watching as she reclines, as she lifts her arms above her head, her body stretching, wanting, temptation personified.
“If I leave, you still get your money.”
“I don’t care. Not anymore.”
“You will have suffered being married to me for nothing.”
“I haven’t suffered. But there’s still time to make me.” Her eyes flash like blue flames. I dare you.
I’m not angry. I’m exhausted. Tired of fighting my need. I pivot—maybe I don’t even realize until I’m standing at the edge of the bed.