Page 125 of Hateful Games

My husband, on the other hand, is mad.

Just my freaking luck. Men always want what they can’t have.

If I give him my body, it will inevitably lead to intimacy. Intimacy will lead to longing. Eventually the longing will twist an into emotional attachment. It will cause feelings to rise and hate to muddle into something dangerous and foolish.

I witnessed it all happen to Bianca.

No way I’m falling into the same trap. Some weird sort of Stockholm syndrome. Falling for my enemy.

Where will that leave me?

“Why do I need to be here for that?” I ask in an irritated tone while keeping my gaze pinned to his face. I have no interest in seeing him naked. And I haven’t forgotten the vivid memory of his eight pack abs being carved from stone. The light smattering of hair on his pecs, accenting his masculinity.

I most certainly don’t think of his anaconda cock.

To match his ego.

Maybe it’s not as impressive as the rumors have made it out to be.

“You don’t,” he replies and tilts his head. “But you’re in no position to leave either, are you?”

Twisting my lips angrily, I try to tug my hands free, hoping the tie will come lose. Was he a Boy Scout or something? No normal human is this efficient in knots. Then again, he loves to play games in the bedroom. So, of course, he had to skill up.

His shoulders move gracefully as he shrugs off his shirt. I keep my gaze averted and continue twisting my wrists, not willing to give up. Except, it does the opposite by tightening them further.

“Maybe try putting more force into it,” Nova flatly suggests. His gaze drifting below my neck, and he licks his lips. “I’m loving the sight of your tits shaking.”

I halt all movements.

He sighs sadly. “Ruined it.”

Assuming I’ll boldly let him ogle my nakedness and sate his curiosity while giving me the power and control of the situation has backfired on me. I’m coerced into a private striptease. Usually, the roles are reversed.

“When have I ever aimed to please you?” I retort.

“You have,” he answers mysteriously. The sound of unzipping plays heavily in the spacious bathroom and I try to not blush that he’s taking off his pants. “You just don’t know it.”

He’s your husband. One peek won’t hurt.

“Are you drunk?” No answer except the whooshing sound indicating he’s dropped his pants. “Because it might explain the utter bullshit spilling from your mouth.”

There’s a greater chance of me willingly drinking poison before I ever attempt to please him. I’ve lived with him for a week before, this shouldn’t be any different. My determination to resist him is far stronger than his hypnotizing and domineering aura.

It does not race my pulse.

Doesn’t call out to my bratty streak.

Nor does it make me wet.

Lies. Lies. Lies.

I lurch back when he’s in front of me in a flash. He doesn’t touch, just bends until his bare chest grazes against my impossibly hard nipples. His nostrils flare and his cut cheekbones harden.

“Just yesterday, you hated my guts for sleeping with Malcolm eight years ago and being your enemy’s daughter and now suddenly, you’ve forgotten it all. Of course, I’m going to assume you’re drunk or you hit your head.”

“Yesterday, you were just my fiancée,” he replies darkly. “Today, you’re my wife. You’re wearing my ring and have my goddamn name painted on your skin. It changes everything, Rose.”

“If I had my hands free, I’d throw the stupid ring in your face. Maybe that’ll get the message through your thick skull that I’m not yours.” My patience running thin, especially after a tiresome weekend, I snap at him, “Honestly, I’m sick of having the same argument over and over.”

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