Page 36 of Filthy Little Games

“Seriously. It’s our lifestyle, our enemies. I know that it’s not just because the women weren’t Italian.”

“The so-called curse is specific to non-Italian women?”

“Yes. I’ll keep our marriage license quiet for as long as I can, but that may only be possible for a few days or weeks.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Marrying you still seems like the better option,” she replies. “And dumping Izaiah in the ocean during our ‘honeymoon’ is probably our best bet, right?”

She says “our” honeymoon and “our” best bet because we’re already a team, have been since I trusted her not to tell him I was eavesdropping from her bathroom.

And as long as Zara is breathing, I don’t have any other choice but to marry her to keep her close to me. I hate that there’s an annoying, demanding part of my body that is desperate to fuck the woman responsible for Carmine’s death. I need to shut that shit down fast.

“This isn’t going to ever be a real marriage. Before the rings or vows, tell me right here, right now that you don’t want me and never will.”

Zara’s auburn brow furrows, drawing my attention to the trail of freckles that lead down her nose. “W-what? Why?”

She wants me to give her a reason why I need her to voice her rejection? Fine. She can have the whole truth. “Because there are already a million and one filthy ideas about what I’d like to do to you, swirling around in my head, and hearing your rejection may be the only thing that stops those thoughts from continuing to multiply.” That damn slit in her dress. I can’t resist running my fingertips up the smooth bare thigh that’s crossed over the other before she tells me to never lay a finger on her again.

Zara covers my hand; I assume she’s going to shove it away from her leg.

Instead, she slides my palm up higher, over to where her two legs rest against each other. There, she presses my fingertips about two inches between those tightly crossed thighs before unfortunately pulling them back out again. When my eyes lift to hers, she studies me as she returns my hand back to my lap. The temptress wraps my fingers around the length of my hard shaft, then makes me give myself a squeeze and an agonizingly slow stroke.

I’m staring down at her gorgeous cleavage on the second and third stroke, which is when I groan so loudly that I almost miss it when she says, “I don’t want to want you, but I would never say never.”

Fuck.

And that is the reason I was late to my own damn wedding ceremony.

It wasn’t the partial hand job in the car that had me so strung out, I couldn’t wait until later to go rub one out in the clerk’s bathroom like a goddamn teenager.

It was the possibility of someday having Zara underneath me that had me so turned on, I couldn’t think straight.

11

Zara

The giant sparkling diamond on my finger feels heavy, like a burden rather than an expensive gift. A burden that legally binds me to Creed Ferraro.

I have no clue how much it’s worth. If I had to guess, about a hundred grand. That’s enough money to live on for months if I ever have to pawn it, and this one was the smallest diamond the jeweler brought with him. I don’t blame the man if he’s working off commission, but it’s going to get caught on everything.

“You don’t like the ring?” Creed asks from his seat beside me on the ride back to his building. We had a quick ceremony, even a few photos, and picked out rings all within about ten minutes. It seems like something as life changing as marriage should take longer than the time it takes to order a coffee.

“I’ll get used to it,” I tell him, even though it’s a lie. I’m stashing it as soon as I can to ensure I don’t lose something so valuable.

At least our matching platinum bands are simple enough not to cause me any trouble.

Wedding bands.

It’s official.

And why in the world did I tell Creed I would never say never while stroking his very long, very hard erection before the vows?

He was giving me an out, a chance to tell him I didn’t want him and never would, that sex would not be part of our marriage. But when I asked him why he wanted me to reject him, he just had to go and say, “Because there are already a million and one filthy ideas about what I would like to do to you swirling around in my head, and hearing your rejection may be the only thing that stops those thoughts from continuing to multiply.”

I like being wanted by the handsome, intimidating man almost as much as I like hearing him openly admit that he wants me. He owned up to his desire for me, but so far, he’s been respectful enough not to try to just take what he wants.

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