Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 89232 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89232 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
That explains the mystery of the dress. I don’t know what Celeste was thinking, if she believed I had a wedding gown delivered, but she shouldn’t have taken it. She should’ve asked. Everything just happened so fast.
Angelo removes a cufflink, pulling my attention to the insignia set in platinum, the intertwined, snarling wolves that each has a diamond eye. The cufflink makes a clink as he drops it next to the gun.
“I see you’ve decided,” he says, loosening the other cufflink.
My gaze snaps to his. “I don’t want this.”
“This?” His smile is taunting. “Define this.”
“Us fucking.”
“Fucking.” He says it as if the idea is a joke. “Do you think I want to fuck you after what you’ve done?”
His hatred is so blatant it steals my breath.
He rolls back a sleeve, exposing his strong, tanned forearm. “But let me share a fact with you, wife. When you begged me to put that ring on your finger and to give you my name, you promised to obey me. When you begged me to spare the lives of your traitorous family and your pathetic best friend, you agreed to fulfill your marital duties.” He folds back the other sleeve. “Any and every duty I deem fit. Is that clear? Or do you need a reminder?”
“No,” I snap, hating him as much as he hates me. No, more. I don’t think you can hate someone with more intensity.
He lifts a finger and makes a circle, indicating I should turn. Reluctantly, I give him my back. He grips the zipper above my buttocks and pulls it down slowly, his fingers brushing over my ass in the process. An involuntary shiver contracts my skin. Reversing the path, he trails his fingertips over my spine and unfastens the button at the top. The dress falls open in the front and slides down my legs before pooling around my feet.
His heat disappears at my back, making more goosebumps run over me even though the temperate in the room is comfortable.
“Turn around,” he says.
I obey like a good wife, facing him with my arms held stiffly at my sides.
“Underwear too,” he says, raking a path over me with his gaze.
Swallowing what’s left of my pride, I push the thong down my thighs.
He studies me unabashedly, paying special attention to the spot between my legs where his mark is hidden beneath my curls.
“Shoes,” he instructs.
I kick them off and wait for his next command. Despite his earlier statement, the bulge in his pants says he wants me. As much as I try not to be affected, I can’t help the spark that ignites in my belly or the pulsing ache that grows between my legs. But then he douses the heat spreading from my lower body more effectively than a bucket of ice water dumped over my head when he says, “Get down on all fours and crawl to the bathroom.”
I gape at him. “What?”
“You heard me.” He flicks his fingers and points at the floor. “Here. Now.”
My whole being protests. He observes me with the self-assurance of a man who knows I’ll obey. How can I not? My family’s lives depend on my actions.
Humiliation burns on my cheeks as I go down on my hands and knees. The floor is hard and the carpet thin. The thread digs into my skin as I crawl to the door at the back, which I assume leads to the bathroom. His footsteps are quiet, but I sense him following behind me. When I pause in front of the door, he walks around me to open it.
The bathroom is smaller than the cabin, and the floor is tiled. A shower and a toilet hug a small cabinet. Painfully aware of how exposed I am, I sit back on my heels, but he presses the tip of his shoe between my shoulder blades and pushes me down with a tsk of his tongue. It takes every ounce of willpower I possess to swallow an insult and stay where he wants me.
“Go to the cabinet,” he says. “You’ll find your toiletries inside.”
I look at him from over my shoulder. “How did my things get here?”
“An attendant unpacked them before we boarded.”
“That’s an invasion of my privacy.”
Ignoring the complaint, he gives another order. “Put on your red lipstick.”
I frown. “What?”
“Stop asking questions, and do as I say.”
What is he trying to do? Make me look pretty so that he can stand to look at my face?
When I don’t move, he raises an eyebrow. “Do you want me to do it for you?”
Clenching my teeth, I crawl over the floor and open the cabinet. As he said, the bottom shelf is stocked with my toiletries. I have to kneel when I open my make-up bag because I need both my hands. The lipstick Mattie applied this morning has long since rubbed off. Why does he want me to reapply it? What is he playing at?