Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27436 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27436 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
Then his voice comes back to me, deep, gravelly, and vibrating straight to my core, whispering words that makes my skin flush, even now sitting under the hot water.
"Let them look. You don't belong to them, Alexandria. You belong to me." A face materializes in my mind’s eye, though its features remain frustratingly vague. I can’t quite pin the exact color of his eyes or why he was there, but I do remember a dark shadow of stubble, a jawline that looked as though it had been carved from granite, and a devilish, roguish smirk that told me he’s a man who gets exactly he wants when he wants it.
The man is a mystery wrapped in an expensive suit and an air of absolute power, the type I swore to myself I’d stay away from after working with his type for too many years to count.
Another memory flashes, hot and sudden. We were in a confined space—an elevator, or maybe a stairwell. He had me pinned against the wall, his warm hands anchoring my hips against his hard frame. The raw, possessive intensity of his thumb tracing the sensitive underside of my jaw before he leaned down to devour my mouth. I gasp, my hand flying to my wet lips as if I can still feel the bruising pressure of his kiss. I remember the taste of him: smokey, dark, and intoxicating.
“Tell me to stop, Alexandria,” he murmured, his voice a low growl against the shell of my ear, his breath warm against my skin. “If you don’t, I’m taking you back to your room, and I’ll have you begging for more.”
I didn’t tell him to stop. I pulled him closer, my fingers tangling in his thick, dark hair at the nape of his neck, begging for more. Memories flood my brain, chaotic and messy. The sound of his deep laugh, one that felt private, meant only for me. The feel of his hands tracing the curve of my waist, pulling me flush, showing me how perfectly I fit against him. The way his gaze darkened with a heavy, unspoken promise.
And his mouth. Jesus, his dirty, wicked mouth. He whispered things to me in the dark—filthy, breathless promises of what he was going to do to me, how I belonged to him, and he stripped away every last one of my defenses. But how, how did I end up here? And with this mammoth of a ring on my finger?
“Oh fuck, I’m married.” I press my forehead to my knees when realization hits. Slowly, I stand up, turn off the water, and step out. I wrap a fresh towel around myself and walk back into the bedroom, my eyes scanning the space with a clearer focus.
That’s when I see it. Resting on the table near the door next to a bottle of water is a small, cream-colored piece of paper. I double my pace, reaching out to grab the heavy cardstock with trembling fingers. I pick it up. Written in a strong, elegant, and familiar cursive script are words that have me falling on my ass.
Good morning, Wife,
You’re wearing my diamond, Alexandria. You belong to me now. Don't even think about running. I always keep what’s mine, and that’s you. I’ll be back to finish what we started.
--Dante
Oh my god. Oh my fucking god, I married my boss’ best friend at a conference in Vegas and I don’t remember it.
CHAPTER ONE
alexandria
The steady sound of the persistent drizzle does nothing to soothe the electric humming of anxiety flowing under my skin as I sit on the edge of my oversized velvet armchair. The comfort I usually feel with the familiarity of my apartment isn’t here today. Not even the cozy throw pillows, the lush pothos plant trailing down the bookshelf, or the fresh brewed coffee are grounding me.
I’m only anchored to one thing: the absurdly heavy, impossible-to-ignore piece of platinum and diamond sitting on my left hand. My thumb works on autopilot, compulsively spinning the massive emerald-cut stone around my ring finger.
Twist.
Turn.
Slide.
The metal is cold against my warm skin, a constant physical reminder that the fever dream in Las Vegas wasn’t a hallucination after all. This is real. I’m married. I push the band up past my knuckle, letting it sit at the top of my finger.
“I should just take it off,” I tell myself. “Take it off, stick it in the bottom of my jewelry box, and pretend it never happened.” My heart does a frantic flutter at the thought, and my hand freezes. I can’t do it. Slipping it off feels like a lie, but keeping it on feels likes a surrender. I let out a frustrated breath and snap the ring back down to the base of my finger, where it settles with a heavy, possessive weight.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.