Page 109 of The Billionaire's Fake Wife
Damian straightens, "When are you due?”
“We are due in less than four weeks." Jace's chest seems to expand.
Well fuck, the man's done for. Hook, line and sinker.
"I am right chuffed for the both of you." Weston straightens. "However, I see something that needs my attention." He excuses himself and walks over to Amelie.
The three women fall silent as Amelie eyes him suspiciously.
Good for her. She has street smarts written all over her, unlike my wife who is clearly trusting. She has to be for having allowed herself to be ensnared by me. And why do I keep insisting on calling her mine? When she isn’t. I haven’t touched her, not since that day in my conference room, when I had almost come in my pants, as I had fingered her to orgasm. The taste of her lips, the feel of that soft wet core as she had climaxed on my fingers. The hair on the nape of my neck rises.
I pivot and see her.
She stands at the doorway, the simple pale pink-colored sheath covering her from the high collar to below her knees.
I’d chosen it for her from the wardrobe I’d had delivered for her. It is the most conservative of all the dresses I’d personally picked out for her. What I hadn’t counted on was that the sheer simplicity of the cut brings out her curves. It enhances her luscious figure rather than hide it. And the color… The soft pink deepens the flush of her cheeks and compliments the highlights in her hair. My mouth waters. My groin tightens.
I want to lick up the creaminess of her skin, bury my nose in her scented hair, grab the upright perkiness of her breasts and squeeze until her nipples bead, her thighs clench, and the soft flesh between her legs melts with anticipation for me. My cock. My essence inside of her, filling her up and overflowing from her every orifice. Fuck. I squeeze my eyes shut, shake my head. When I crack my eyelids open, she’s still there. She surveys the room and her gaze homes in on me.
She swallows and I swear I can hear the sound from across the space of the room. She tips her chin up. My dick instantly mirrors the move. This woman... I’d sense her in a packed stadium. Blindfold me and I’ll home in on her in a crowded room.
Every pore in my being snaps to attention, every muscle in my body coils with tension. If you cut me open now, my flesh would hum with the need for her. To be inside of her. To pin her to the ground with my cock and thrust into her.
Shag her, mark her, claim her.
The bloody hell—?
One make-believe almost-ceremony and I want to show the world who she truly belongs to. Why is that? Why does it matter that every damn male gaze in the room is drawn to her? And yes, they are people whom I trust, as much as I can trust anyone, and who’d never breach their loyalty for me—well, all except Saint. That twat, I don’t trust. He throws me a smirk. Then crosses the floor toward her. The fuck—? What does he think he’s doing?
Only when my feet eat up the ground in front of me, do I realize I am moving.
I stalk toward my newly-wedded wife—apparently being at the ceremony did not get the message home to my soon-to-be-murdered ex-friend and business partner—when a man steps in front of me.
