Page 57 of His Bride

I take off the shrug and toss it at him. He grabs it and brings it to his nose, inhaling deeply while his eyes never leave mine.

“I’ve never liked the smell of patchouli,” he says, placing my shrug on the table.

“And I’ve never liked you.” I take a seat across from him, and through all of that, his smile is smug and cocky, like he knows something I don’t. Like this entire situation is entertaining to him.

I reach for the wine, pour a glass, and then drink half of it in three gulps. The red’s smooth like Caelian, sensuous on the tongue, with a lingering taste. It would have been better sipped slowly, but it works this way, too. Just like Caelian.

“Done,” I say. “Now sign.”

“Your naked body?” he asks. “Take off the dress, the panties, and bra. Leave the stockings on. I’ll sign anything you want, especially if it’s with my cock.”

I narrow my eyes. “What part of you thinks I want you?”

He picks up his bourbon and has a sip. “All of me. I’m very astute.”

“You’re very much a bastard. And deluded. I have divorce papers, and I want you to sign them.”

“You want my attention.”

“Yes, I want your attention in signing them,” I say, then sip my wine.

He tosses back the remainder of his bourbon, picks up the papers, and rises, stalking around. “We need to negotiate.”

“What?”

“Your demands are ludicrous.”

“I didn’t make any demands. I don’t want anything from you.”

“Exactly. Ridiculous.”

“No,” I say, “thisis ridiculous.”

His long legs carry him across the room, and I squirm.

He’s wearing what I’m betting is a bespoke suit. It matches his eyes, and the cut shows off his lean, masculine build. The muscles, the power of him.

This man makes my mouth dry, my heart flutter, and down below I can feel myself getting wetter by the second. It’s been ten minutes, and I’m already throbbing with an ache that rolls out, wanting pleasure. Wanting the pleasure only he can give.

I love him. I hate him. Caelian’s a second heartbeat in me. He’s a drive of lust and desire. Stripping down and getting on that table appeals in ways it shouldn’t. The appeal has nothing to do with common sense and everything to do with Caelian Del Rossa.

“I want. A divorce,” I say, swallowing hard afterward.

He stalks up, and I can see he’s hard. He’s got his dick discreetly tucked as best he can, but the problem with having an impressive member is it’s…impressive.

He slams the papers on the table before me, knocking the wine over.

With a sweep of his arm, he clears the table of the flowers, the glasses. Bottles. Things smash on the floor, and I jump, watching as he pulls something from his jacket pocket, slamming it down on the papers so hard, I jolt.

For long moments, I stare, my heart in my throat. It’s my wedding ring, gleaming under the light, a tiny circle of irony on the divorce papers.

I look up at him, barely able to swallow the threatening tears. “We’re getting a divorce.”

“Now, that depends if I sign these goddamn papers, doesn’t it?”

“Don’t be a child.”

“You’re the one acting like a child by running away because you didn’t get your fucking way.”

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