Page 117 of Beautifully Reckless

It’s then that I finally get my first glimpse at my bride as she steps from inside my house.

She’s wearing a grin, her lips moving as she walks, and it takes me a hot fucking second to realise she’s singing along to the fucking song.

I barely register the ivory satin dress draped over her curves and baby bump, or the low neckline, accentuating her plump tits. Because all I can focus on is her shit-eating-grin as she proudly sings the lyrics to her favorite boy band like she’s throwing me a big, smug fuck you.

Fucking little brat.

Jols takes her place on the far side, giving Abbey space to join me on the deck, and I shake my head at my Angel, my cock already a fucking semi just from her defiance.

“... let these little things slip out of my mouth...” Abbey sings, the sweet scent of berries wrapping around me, and I forget allabout the fucking boy band playing in the background, or the sixty plus eyes watching us.

All I can focus on are those big doe caramel eyes, striking with the subtle makeup illuminating her skin in a glow that accentuates the one she had earlier this morning.

“Cause it’s you,” she sings quietly, so only I can hear, taking the hand I hold out to her. “Oh it’s you. It’s you they add up to.”

When the song hits the part about being in love, Abbey stops singing and quirks a single brow as she leans closer.

“When I say our vows today, I’m going to be picturing Harry Styles instead of you.”

20

There’s a good chance I’ve lost my marbles. I could blame my newfound courage on hormones or just being plain fed up, but I have a feeling if a shrink got their hands on me right now, they’d probably lock me in a padded room and throw away the key.

It has to be the only explanation as to why I’m hellbent on riling Ringo up this much.

Am I pissed about being forced to marry him?

Hell yes, I am.

And it’s not even because I don’t want to marry him, because if I’m being honest, later down the track, when my life’s not hanging by a thread and things are calmer, I could totally see myself as Mrs Musgrove.

But I’m being forced, which quite frankly, pisses me off.

“You’re acting very reckless, little bride,” Ringo sneers into my ear after I taunted him about picturing him as Harry Styles. “Don’t forget, your actions will have consequences. Some of which you may not like.”

When he pulls back to glare at me, I arch a brow.

“You mean there’s something worse than being forced to marry an old man?”

A muscle ticks under his eye, and everything in me screams to take a step back.

Warning. Danger ahead. Do not proceed.

“Yeah, Angel. Maybe thereissomething worse.” He grips my chin, pressing our noses together. “Like being fucked by an old man.”

Oh.

My traitorous body lights up, an instant pulsing flaring between my thighs, and my nipples bead into tight buds, straining against the satin fabric of my dress.

Shit. This is not good. I’m not even wearing a bra.

Two months ago, the thought of being fucked made me feel sick.

Today, however, I’m practically salivating to find out if this man can wipe away the filth those six arseholes left behind.

Still, I’m pissed about this forced wedding. About having the decision ripped from me once again.

Am I as pissed as I was with my parents?

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