Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 90511 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90511 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Except a strange excited thrill rustles through my stomach.
I climb the steps and find my wife sitting on my bed. She’s got boxes and bags all around her, some half opened, with clothes spilling out like the guts of an exotic animal. Chiffon, lace, silk, rich girl shit. I stare at my formerly utilitarian space and wonder how we’re going to fit all this.
But Charlie’s clearly got it all worked out already.
My suits are thrown in the corner, and it seems that she claimed half the closet as her own.
“I’m sure you’ll figure that out.” She waves a hand at her destruction. “Since we’re cohabitating now. What’s yours is mine and all that.”
I turn to face her. Partly, I’m seething. She shows up out of nowhere and starts ripping into my life like she owns it all. That’s classic rich girl behavior. No appreciation for anyone else’s boundaries. Why care when her endless money can solve all her problems?
But the other half of me is just confused.
“Are you moving into my room?” I ask, trying to understand what in the hell is going on right now.
She seems surprised. “Obviously. We’re married, remember?”
“I have a spare room. I figured you’d want that.”
Her nose wrinkles. “And use the hall bathroom? No thanks. You’ve got a good setup here. Nice size room. King mattress. I feel like this is going to be more comfortable.”
“You do realize I’ll be in that bed every night.” I take a step toward her. My blood’s pulsing in my chest. I notice her studying my face with a slight frown.
“Have you been fighting?”
“Boxing. Don’t change the subject.”
“There’s blood on your ear.” She waves a hand at my face.
I don’t bother wiping it off. “You’re deflecting.”
“A fighter and a psychologist. I really did marry an incredible man.”
“What’s going on here, Charlie? Don’t fucking bullshit me.”
One perfect eyebrow arches. Fuck, she’s so pretty. Especially when she’s looking at me like she wants to rip off my balls and feed them to a woodchipper. “Don’t curse at me. I’m your wife, not your mafia buddy.”
“I don’t have buddies,” I grumble, frustrated. “Cursing is my love language.”
“Learn a new one. There are apps for that now.”
I stalk toward her, sick of the games. “This is my bed. This is my space. You could have asked.” I get close enough to reach out and grab her by the hair, and I’m tempted to do it. If she can demand respect and make me stop cursing, then I sure as hell can spank her into submission and teach her a lesson too.
But she leaps up and moves out of range before I can make a move.
“About that.” She holds up her hands defensively. There’s a wicked smile on her lips. It’s goddamn gorgeous, and I keep thinking about sliding my dick in that lovely mouth. Only I’m pretty sure that look doesn’t bode well for me. I smell a fucking trap. “I’ve been thinking about my rule.”
I stop in my tracks. We haven’t talked about that since the wedding. Honestly, a part of me forgot all about it, or maybe I hoped that she’d let it go.
Clearly that’s not happening.
“What did you come up with, wife?” I use the word like a cudgel. She doesn’t seem to let it bother her, though.
“It’s simple, actually. You’re going to hate it.”
“Tell me.”
Her smile gets bigger, like she’s in control here. I think about striding across the room, flattening the space between us, and taking her as my own. Those pretty, dark red lips. Her thick brown hair wrapped around my fist. Those pants and moans, all the darkness of her hate and her need, all of it breaking on my tongue and my fingers. Her taste can flood me. I can take her. It wouldn’t even be hard.
But I leash myself. I have to hold back. There’s a line that I won’t cross with her, even if I’m so fucking tempted every time we’re alone together.
She’s sin, and I’ve ruined myself enough as it is.
I won’t blacken my soul even more by giving in to my worst impulses.
But fuck, I want her.
It’s horrible, the aching need in my guts.
In my fucking slacks.
The thought of her writhing and moaning as my cock pounds into her from behind is enough to make my dick stiffen with electric want.
She holds up a finger. One perfectly manicured nail.
“My rule is simple. You can never touch me unless I explicitly ask you to.”
I step back, letting the words hang between us. Her smile tightens and her eyes wrinkle with amusement at my reaction.
The implication hits me like a thunderclap, and I realize I played myself right into her hands.
All of a sudden, she’s holding the power.
I can break my word. Destroy everything I hold dear about myself. I swore I’d follow the rule she gave me, and I define myself as a man of honor. Not a good man. A fucking monster, if I’m honest. But a man that does what he says he’ll do, no matter how hard it might be.