Page 56 of His Bride

“Real sex on the table with me, then?”

“Screw you, Caelian.”

He smirks. “Careful, sweet, venomous Giana. Your men might think you love me.”

“I don’t,” I lie. “I hate you.” I lie again.

“Love, hate, they both work for me. I’m not just easy on the eyes, but easy in nature.”

“I have the papers.”

His smile dies, and his eyes harden. “I can see them.” He flicks a stern gaze at the guards. “Be a good girl, New York, and send your gorillas outside.”

“They stay.”

He adjusts his collar, rolls his shoulders. “Send them the fuck out, Giana. Now. Or I won’t sign those papers.”

He means it.

My cheeks burn as I turn and look from one man to the other. I can imagine the self-satisfied smirk on Caelian, the glint of triumph.

Both men’s faces are stone, but their annoyance at being dismissed burns hot like testosterone in the air.

But I force a smile. “I’ll be okay.”

They don’t move.

I glance back, and yes, he’s smirking, one hand raised in an arrogant and flippant bye-bye wave.

“This is my decision,” I tell them. “Not his. If you have to report back to my father, tell him I’m going to have something to eat,make him sign the papers, and then I’m going out for a drink.” I glare at Caelian. “To celebrate.”

There’s only a whiff of hesitation as they both turn to leave, and I close the door behind them.

I turn. And Caelian’s there so fast it’s like a vertigo attack, my head spinning as he pins me, hand either side of my head.

“Now that we’re alone.” Caelian strokes a finger, whisper-light against my hip. “Sex on the table with me?”

Everything quivers and explodes into life.

This close, he’s all I can smell—evocative, masculine, his scent so familiar I shake.

He doesn’t miss it, as that infuriatingly sexy mouth ticks up and he leans in, rubbing his shaved chin against my ear, then he brings his lips to my lobe where he licks a tiny path.

“I’m still referring to the drink. I’d hate for you to get the wrong idea.”

My pulse hammers a deafening rhythm of hot lava, my blood simmering and singing simultaneously. It’s something only he can stir within me with expert ease—that angered excitement, the annoyingly appealing pull of resistance.

I put my hands on his suit, and I push.

For a moment, he doesn’t move. Then he steps back, and I’m flooded with a mix of relief and disappointment.

I’m still leaning against the door when he saunters off to sit. “Take off that fucking jacket thing and sit, New York.”

I right myself and stalk up, slamming the papers on the table before him. “Just sign it.”

“Take off that…thing,” he says, pointing at the shrug over my shoulders.

Now I wish I had worn something impossibly sexy, low cut, and figure hugging. I should have bought sky-high heels with blood-red soles for this occasion just to taunt him.

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