Page 82 of A Forgotten Promise

I clear my throat, and she turns to me. “You’re home early. Or at all.” A sarcastic smile tugs at her lips.

The sunglasses are huge, covering half of her face, and it’s still the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen.

“Enjoying yourself?” I growl, clenching my fists because if I’m honest, I want to fuck her and kill her too.

“Yes.” She turns her face to the sun to demonstrate I can’t spoil her fun.

“Enjoying your minute of fame? I thought you were over the attention.” I sit on the lounge chair beside her, bracing my arms on my knees.

She raises her glasses, pushing them into her messy hair, and frowns at me.

“What were you thinking, Saar?”

“You need to be more specific, darling. I’ve been thinking about a lot of things. All the ways I could rid of your body. What I will do with my life once I’m free of you. What to wear to the theater on Friday—”

I snap, pouncing. With my knee beside her, I grip her jaw and lower my face to her. Her breath hitches, and I immediately regret my impulse because her gasp goes directly to my groin.

“I thought you understood the deal, The Morrigan. We’re supposed to be presenting an image of stability, not broadcasting that you’re lost and isolated. You’re making me look like I don’t even know how to make my fiancée happy.”

She glares at me, but the hatred mingles with something else, something more primal, raw. Carnal?

And then I remember: I can’t read her. That Mathison’s file confirmed she showed me only a tiny part of herself. And even that might be a lie.

“It’s true, though. You can’t make me happy.”

My hand shakes on her jaw, and despite my anger, I’m acutely aware of the softness of her skin, the lushness of her lips, the fire in her eyes. The need to kiss her.

“We’re not in an actual relationship; the truth is irrelevant here. I’ve regretted this arrangement a thousand times over, and every time I think we might just cohabit decently, you have to act out.”

“If you want to get rid of me so badly, just set the date finally. The sooner we get married, the sooner I’m gone, and you can replace me with one of your sex-club trophies.”

“Are you jealous?” More importantly, why do I want her to be? And why am I derailing the conversation?

“You wish.”

Yes, I do. Fuck. “Delete the post.”

Against my will—that’s the story I’m sticking to, because I’ve become proficient at lying to myself—my hand moves, caressing her chin, down her throat, her skin like smooth velvet under my touch. I dip my fingers into the neckline of her sweater.

We stare at each other, tension and lust mixing, morphing the moment into something it shouldn’t be, filling it with agonizing temptation.

I want to move away, but I can’t. Fuck, I don’t want to.

She breaks first, cups my nape, and pulls me to her, her lips fusing with mine. It’s not a sweet kiss or a claiming one. It’s a desperate one—full of pent-up tension, frustration, and all our animosity.

Our teeth clash, our tongues fight as we suck, lick, bite, full of frenzy. I forget where we are, who we are, my entire being craving more of this woman. Craving a release from this fucked-up situation.

I scoop her and flip us around. She straddles me without breaking the contact, gripping my hair in a rage and fervor and pure need.

“This means nothing.” She pants.

“Agreed.”

“I mean it, Corm.” She looks at me, the fire in her eyes pouring lava into my veins.

“This means nothing,” I say, wishing for it to be true.

She grinds her hips against me, and fuck, I’m going to come in my pants. What is she doing to me?

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