Page 72 of The Unplanned Wedding

Goodness, using my feminine wiles actually works with him.I store it away for future reference.

“We’ll figure that out later, okay?” I say softly, in a beseeching tone. “Please?” I don’t flutter my eyelashes again—that would be overkill. But Ido make sure I lower my chin and my eyes and try to come across as subservient as possible.

It works, for he sighs. “Fine. We can talk about it later.”

And I’m going to get my way on it, is what I think inwardly, but I don’t say that aloud.

He turns to leave, and again, I call out, “Wait.”

He spins around, a fold between his eyebrows. “Now what?”

His tone is exasperated. I stifle a chuckle.Yeah, well, marriage ain’t a cake walk, buster. You’re going to have to learn to give some ground when we’re not in the bedroom—where, I might add, you can boss me around, and ‘ll enjoy it. As for real life...? I like to be submissive there, largely, but there are a few places where I draw the line.I wisely don’t say any ofthataloud either.

“My phone.” I hold out my hand.

He pulls it out of his pocket and hands it over to me. “You can also keep the company laptop.”

“Thanks,” I say politely.

He searches my features again, his gaze hard, no sign that we discussed something as personal as our forthcoming wedding is betrayed by his features. He holds my eyes for a few seconds, more then abruptly turns, and pulls the door open. “I’ll see you at my apartment, nine a.m., in three days. Oh, and July”—he glances over his shoulder and levels his gaze on me— “you will not come until I give you permission.”

Argh, he had the last word,again.And why, oh why, did he say that? Did he realize it’d cause my imagination to go into overdrive and my body to overheat over the next few days? I'm sure he did.I wasn't able to sleep last night due to the pulse gripping my core. This morning, I woke up humping my pillow! My breasts are swollen, and my nipples peaked. I drag myself out of bed and into the shower, arriving at work by eight a.m. But he’s not here.

He told me he'd be away, but I was hoping to get a glimpse of him. There are no emails from him either. But a look at the schedule for his private jet tells me he is, indeed, traveling.

I miss him so much; I walk into his office. I touch his pen, the smooth wood of his desk’s surface, his keyboard and mouse. There’s nothing elseon his desk—he’s ruthlessly organized. He touched these objects, and I take some solace in that. I pretend I can feel the warmth from his fingers on them, but that’s long faded. I inhale deeply and I smell him. And when I sink into his chair, it feels like I’m surrounded by him. I lean back, close my eyes, revel in contact with the surface he leaned into when he was here. My blood beats at my temples, and my pulse rate kicks up. My pussy tingles, and I slide my thighs apart. I slip my fingers under my skirt, push aside my panties, and when I touch my clit, I cry out.Oh god, I’m so wet.I begin to rub at the moist skin, and vibrations squeeze my thighs, my hips. I throw my head back, and the climax swells my belly.

You will not come until I give you permission.

His voice echoes in my ears. My movements slow. My orgasm fades.Damn, I have to obey him. I can’t not.I knew that, yet my need had built so much, I had to, at least, try to rub one out. But sadly, I can’t. Not unless he lets me.

I bring my fingers to my mouth and suck on them. Pretend I can taste his darkness, but really, the taste of my cum is sweet and unsatisfying. I sigh and leave his office, then go home and pack my clothes.

The next morning, the movers turn up. They promise to deliver my clothes to his penthouse and unpack for me. He left them instructions about where they need to go in his bedroom.

His bedroom.

So, we’re sharing a bedroom? My pulse thickens. Liquid heat invades my veins. He may have said he’s not going to fuck me, but we’re going to be sleeping together. Anticipation clings to my nerve-endings.

I begin to pace the living room. I have my laptop and can work from home. Going into the office has lost its appeal when he's not there. Also, if I go into his office, I’ll be torturing myself. And I won’t be able to stop myself from entering if I do go in… So, I decide not to. Instead, I email him and ask if I can invite Zoey and my mother and siblings to the wedding.

Then, the wedding planner he’s engaged calls and walks me through the ceremony, and I’m glad for the distraction.

The next two days pass quickly—and without any reply from him.

I turn up at his doorstep at nine a.m. on my wedding day, and the wedding planner ushers me into the guest room, which I'll use to get ready.

Thankfully, there’s no glam team. Did he realize I'd prefer to do my own makeup today? It feels more personal, rather than having a team fawning over me. All too soon, I’m smoothing my hand down the pale pink dress he chose for me. It’s another Alexander McQueen but has cleaner lines than the one I wore to the royal reception. The gown is made of silk that flows to my toes and has long sleeves made of lace. It has a high collar and a neckline that hints at my cleavage, and dips at the back, but not so much that it’s immodest. Honestly, it's perfect. I love it.

My stilettos—which are Manolo Blahniks—are in the same pale pink color. I am also holding flowers— a spray of blue forget-me-nots and pink dahlias. They're so pretty.

I’m wearing my contact lenses and, in addition to mascara, I’ve traced the shape of my eyes with kohl, so they look bigger than usual. I‘m wearing a pale pink lipstick that makes my mouth look fuller and have piled my hair on top of my head, so it shows off the length of my neck. I don’t wear any other makeup. Overall, my style is minimal but delicate. It’s very me. Even if I’d had weeks or months to prepare, I wouldn't have come up with anything better than this. I wish I could call Zoey and show her how I look, but I’ll do that after. Same with Irene.

I’m sure both of them would have tried to stop me from going through with it, so perhaps, it’s a good thing he didn’t reply. It saved me from having to convince them this is right for me. Besides, it’s not a real wedding… Not in the physical sense, at least; so, I'm not bartering myself, am I? My stomach clenches. Somehow, the thought isn’t very reassuring. And I’ll admit, I am a little disappointed that I won’t get to know him in the carnal sense. Although, given the attraction between us, I wonder how I’m going to stop myself from wanting more?

There’s a knock on the door, and the wedding planner walks in. "They’re ready for you."

I turn to face her, and a big smile lights up her face. "You look beautiful.”

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