Page 41 of The Irish Arrangement

I grinned at her breathing hard, already so turned on from just that slight tease.

“Not being a prisoner. Being outside. Staying busy and not idle like this.” Her eyes glittered with anger, and I swore she was the sexiest, feistiest woman on earth.

“So when you say you want to get it over with, what are you in a hurry to do instead?” I smirked. “Stare out the windows and be moody?”

“It’s better than looking at you. Especially when you think it’s cute and funny to play games with me and reject me for the one thing you do want from me.”

I shook my head. “I’m not rejecting you.” I stepped closer, cupping her and pressing my palm to her mound. “I will fuck you.” I lightly slapped her there before breaking away. “But on my terms, Wife.”

She snarled. “Whatever you say, Husband.”

I chuckled, taking her hand again. “Now you’re getting the hang of it.”

I wouldn’t tell her why I wanted her to want it with me, not act bored. Nor would I tell her that I was struck with this stupid, nagging need to know more about her.

Like what could have happened to harden her into this exquisite and strong woman who’d just take her lot, roll over, and suffer through sex just to get it over with. So boldly, without backing down.

I wanted to admire her strength. I sought more insight for how she could be able to accept her fate, no matter what.

But deep down, seeing that indifference in her eyes and knowing she saw me as nothing but a source of obligation, I was aware of how badly I wanted her to desire me back.

She did. She was capable of getting over herself to want me. Last time, she showed me how, and it was glorious.

She had given me a taste, and I wanted to feast on her submission every single time now.

“Did Frank or Tom show you around?” I asked.

A gruff snort was her reply. “A little late to playact as a host, isn’t it?”

“I’m not your host. I’m your husband. And we—you—live here.”

“This is living?” Her sass hit a different note now. I heard the pain, the sadness and frustration she was probably trying so hard to hide from me. I had much to learn about her, but I knew she’d hate to seem vulnerable around me.

“I saw you in the dining room and the library.” I thought back to when I wondered what she was up to here. Most of my fantasies were of her on a bed or bent over, ready and eager for me to plunge my dick in deep.

“And my ‘wing’.”

“You don’t like it?” God, spare me another materialistic bitch like Caitlin.

“It’s got a bed. I don’t care.”

I sighed. “What do you care about?”

“How about the chance to feel the sun on my face? A breath of fucking fresh air?”

I stopped her, treating myself to the full effect of her glower. She was radiant when she fought. In a fleeting, barely-there way, she reminded me of my mother. Annie Sullivan. A rare woman and the best mother, gone too soon. She was never a second to my father, but an equal. I recalled her coming to fights, cleaning up cuts and scrapes, hands-on in the kitchen and ruling the household.

Cara didn’t want to commit and take ownership here. I didn’t encourage her to, but she’d made her wishes clear in trying to strike a deal to get away in six months.

“They gave me a tour. A limited one,” she replied with snark. “Why bother with anything else? I’m just a prisoner.”

“Shut up.” I took her hand and opened the back door.

She inhaled deeply as she walked outside with me. I glanced back, mesmerized by the sight of her. Peaceful. Calm and happy. Contented to feel the weak sunlight streaming down as she closed her eyes without a grimace.

Beautiful. Absolutely fucking beautiful. Her fingers loosened within my hand, but it didn’t make me suspicious. She wasn’t fighting to break out of my grip as I led her across the patio. Relaxed and caught off guard, she lost that tension that pulled at her muscles. Another deep breath in seemed to charge her, to renew her soul, and I couldn’t stop the wide smile that broke across my lips.

Disarmed by her beauty at the mere opportunity to be outside, I realized how I’d erred.

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