Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 135536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Like the perfect sin.
Corrupting the uncorrupted.
The prenuptial agreement passed without a hitch. Shortbread scoured through every word, jotted her name on the dotted lines a dozen times, and listened, nodding whenever appropriate.
It marked the first time she’d exhibited signs of rationality.
That should’ve been my first warning.
Her feistiness returned in full swing when our lawyers departed and Cara arrived to drop off a trillion new outfits.
Shortbread soaked up an eyeful of fifty-seven-year-old, wedding-band-sporting Cara. Her shoulders sagged.
My bride had the poker face of an eager puppy.
“These clothes are an insult to eyes all over the world. It’s going to look like I’m playing dress up as a sixty-year-old.” Dallas flung cashmere dresses and hand-knitted cardigans on the hardwood while picking an outfit for dinner.
My body temperature spiked. I positively despised messes, and everything about her was untidy.
Cara hovered around Dallas, thrusting different garments at her. Hettie joined the party, cracking up each time Dallas tested Cara’s patience.
I suspected they’d become fast friends in the time I’d spent in my Woodley Park penthouse. I didn’t mind. It was good that Shortbread had someone to talk to.
Because that person wouldn’t be me.
Nonetheless, I wasn’t thrilled to have a front-row seat to this tableau.
Cara picked up a plaid sweater. “What’s wrong with this dress?”
Dallas blew a raspberry like a toddler, just to get on my nerves. “I’ll look like I’m about to launch into a monologue about how I haven’t seen my lover in eighty-four years.”
Hettie, who’d gotten the Titanic reference, toppled to the floor, clutching her stomach with each laugh.
A flustered Cara planted a fist on each hip. “This is the sixteenth gown you’ve tried, young lady. It is a terrific gown. A classic. Costs a fortune. I didn’t hear any complaints when Romeo bought it for his ex-girlf—”
She didn’t finish the sentence, but it was enough to paint disgust on Shortbread’s face.
“Well, in that case, he is welcome to marry her.”
No, thank you.
I’d take Dallas over Morgan every day of my cursed week.
After forty minutes of this spectacle, I snatched a dress from Dallas’s fingertips. “If you’re not going to choose an outfit, I’ll do it for you. Dare I suspect our tastes run different?”
A violent glare swaddled her cheeks. “I want to be left alone. Everybody out.”
With pleasure.
I waited in the foyer, glued to my messages.
Ollie vB
That couch needed a makeover, anyway.
Zach Sun
Hate to break it to you, but you married the female, virginal version of Oliver.
Romeo Costa
Zach, sweetheart, you sure you’re doing lines of code and not lines of coke?
Beside me, Hettie whistled. “Holy. Crap.”
I pocketed my phone, lifting my head. Shortbread descended the stairway, reminding me why I’d stolen her.
For the first time in my life, I regretted my no-sex rule.
I imagined seeing this inexperienced, naïve woman writhing beneath me as I took her virginity would make my entire decade, if not lifetime.
My future wife looked sensational.
Ample cleavage shot past the corset bodice of her solid-gold dress. Her tiny waist swayed as she walked, guiding the floor-sweeping train. A loose bun rested on her head, tendrils of dark locks framing her face.
She was so absurdly beautiful, I watched her every move like she was a Fata Morgana.
Alas, even Miss Townsend, as alluring as she was, couldn’t break the no-heirs rule.
Dallas reached the last stair, where she thrusted her Chanel purse in my chest. I caught it, indulging her.
If holding her purse tonight meant she’d be a good girl when I introduced her to my parents, I was willing to play the gentleman for a short while.
“I’m going to get a snack to-go. I haven’t eaten in two hours.”
Where did she fit all this food?
“Hurry up and mind the dress.”
She started to the kitchen, then stopped, frowning. “Is your family terrible? I need to know whether to compliment my snack with a shot of something strong.”
“Get yourself two shots. Actually, bring the whole bottle. We’ll share.”
On second thought, I had buyer’s remorse.
I spent the drive to my parents’ house staring at my future wife, wondering if she’d been raised by coyotes. Dallas’s long, shapely legs strewed beneath her like excess fabric of a newly worn dress.
She split open an Oreo and licked the cream with a moan, washing it down with the vintage champagne we shared. “You know in Japan they have Bourbon choco and coffee biscuits? Imagine what that must taste like.”
The only thing I imagined was my cum in the Oreo cream’s place, dripping from between her succulent lips. It infuriated me that I’d momentarily fallen for it when she claimed to be an alcoholic.
The woman was straight as an arrow. Lazy, spoiled, and reckless, sure. But her only vice seemed to be food that would send her into the arms of type 2 diabetes and an early grave.
Unfortunately, Dallas interpreted my glaring as an open invitation for conversation. “So, why does your daddy want you to marry so bad?”