Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 96170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
I don’t tell him that, though. I can already guess what he’d say. Sleep in my bed, princess, and we’ll make plenty of noise, or something equally dumb. I knew marrying Luca wouldn’t be easy, but I had no clue it would be this deeply frustrating.
It’s after midnight by the time I feel exhausted enough to sleep. I’m all gross and sweaty as I head upstairs in just a sports bra and a pair of running tights. I should probably cover up on account of my sexy-as-hell husband and my apparent lack of self-control, but screw it. This is my house too, right? I should be allowed to wear whatever I want to exercise in, and that basement is stuffy. I’m not changing just for some guy I didn’t even want to marry in the first place.
I’m annoyed at a fictional version of Luca and already having a fake argument with him in my head (one I’m winning, obviously) as I head into my bedroom.
And come to a halt.
“You motherfucker…” I stare at the bed. Or what’s left of it, anyway.
The mattress is cut in half straight down through the frame.
He didn’t even take the bedding off. The sheets are shredded. Pillow stuffing is tossed all over like a grisly crime scene. The wooden frame’s slumped inwards.
How the hell did he even manage to pull this off?
I’m impressed for half a second.
Then I’m deeply pissed off.
Because there’s no other bed in this house.
I storm to his room, too furious to stop myself. The pranks have gone far enough. I need to be able to live here, and I deserve a little comfort and privacy. That’s just basic human decency, right? I throw open his door, ready to tell him off so brutally he breaks down in tears, but all my anger suddenly fizzles and dies.
Luca’s coming out of the bathroom in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs, a towel draped around his shoulders.
His hair’s still damp. His skin glistens slightly. He looks up at me, not surprised to see me there staring at him with an open mouth like a kid seeing Santa’s workshop for the first time, not even angry that I caught him coming out of the shower and mostly naked, just slightly amused.
Like this was his plan the whole time.
My god, this isn’t fair.
The man is a specimen.
I swear, he must’ve been grown in a vat or something. I’m not even kidding. It’s like some mad scientist decided to make Frankenstein, except instead of a hideous monster, he ended up with pure godlike sexual perfection.
Luca’s got tattoos. He’s covered in dark, vicious ink. Wings across his chest. Guns on his ribs. A wolf eating the moon. Roses dripping blood. More images I can barely comprehend, mostly because they disappear into the (much too small) space covered by his boxer briefs. He’s got those muscles, that stupid mind-melting V pointing straight down to his bulging dick.
Not that I’m staring at his package. But actually, yeah, I’m staring at his package, because I remember what it feels like to have that thing tearing me up inside, and I suddenly very much want to taste it again.
“If you’re coming to bed, feel free to get undressed first.” He casually stands there, hands gripping either end of his towel, and that confident smirk finally snaps me out of my horny-brain-induced staring coma.
“You cut my bed in half,” I snap at him, trying very hard to ignore the fact that my cheeks are crimson with aroused embarrassment.
“Yes, I did.”
“How the hell did you even manage to do that? And what is wrong with you?”
“I used a chainsaw.” He tilts his head, lips pressed together like he’s trying not to smile. “And there’s a lot wrong with me. Should we start a list?”
“You’re such a prick.” Anger starts to overwhelm my good sense. A smart girl would turn and run. Apparently, I’m the biggest dummy in the world, because I charge at him.
He looks mildly surprised as I slam my hands into his chest and try to shove him back.
It’s like moving a brick wall. He doesn’t even flinch. His eyebrows raise as he looks down at my hand pressed against his bare chest. I’m cupping his muscles like I’m feeling him up. And honestly, now that my hands are on him, I kind of am.
He’s incredible.
It’s so unfair.
“Did you just put your hands on me, wife?” he asks very softly.
I set my jaw, aware that I crossed a line and am absolutely in the wrong now, but too stubborn to admit it. “You used a chainsaw on my bed.” I try to push him again. I succeed in kneading his incredible pecs instead. “You have absolutely no respect—”
“You want to talk about respect?” He grabs my wrists so fast I can barely see him move. He twists me to the side, shoving me back until I bang against the wall with a gasp. He pins my hands above my head, snarling and dominating me, the world going dark as his head looms in front of my face. “You put your hands on me, wife. You did it in anger.”