Page 130 of The Billionaire's Fake Wife
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Summer
"Hi Summer."
I glower past Saint at the obnoxious, douche-canoe, conceited waffle, rat’s arse of a man, aka my husband, and all the breath promptly leaves me.
"You okay, there?" Saint frowns.
"Of course." I make a sound deep in my throat. "Why wouldn’t I be?"
"You were muttering to yourself.”
"He has that effect." I growl.
Saint glances from me to Sinclair, who gives no sign that he’s surprised by my appearance. Asshole hadn’t waited for me this morning. He’d left, after laying out a dress for me to wear—he hadn’t forgotten that, of course.
He’d ensured that one of the interns in the office had helpfully woken me up at a quarter to nine.
Giving me enough time to drag my sorry arse out of bed, and into the shower. I'd raced to the tube and managed to reach the office by half past nine. "You could have waited and offered me a lift to the office."
"Oh?" Sinclair folds his arms behind his neck, his legs up on the £5000 custom-made desk which, no doubt, he could replace in an instant. Like he could switch me out for another. Which he will do. The question is, when, and it is something I intend to find out.
I take a step inside the room, and Sinclair smirks.
My pussy instantly salivates. Hell. Something in that meanness of his glance, the way he rakes my body from top to bottom, undressing me…Just as he had made me take off my clothes less than nine hours ago. It already seems far in the past, in the cold light of the gray London morning.
"And why, pray tell me, Bird, should I have delayed my very important meeting, while I waited for you to stop snoring?"
"That was you, asshole." I pull out my phone, "I have proof. I recorded it."
"What?" He frowns.
I wave the device at him, "Guess none of your girlfriends dared tell you about your condition, huh?"
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
Saint chuckles, "Damn, this should be interesting."
"Get the hell out of here." I snarl at the same time as Sinclair.
"If this is what marriage does to people—"
"Fake marriage."
Sinclair echoes my indignance.
"Right." He looks between us. "Bye, Summer." He lowers his voice, "I’d wish you luck, but I think that tosser needs it more than you."
He heads for the exit; the door snicks shut.
"Missed me, Darlin’?" Sinclair drawls.
His rough tone tugs on my sensitive nipples, then slithers down to the valley between my legs. I shiver.
Damn the man. He’s unshaven, his hair mussed up as if he’s been running his fingers through it, or like he rolled out of bed and came here, which he had, considering I had his dick buried balls deep inside of me less than 3 hours ago. My sex clenches. Hell. I fold my fingers at my sides.
Why the hell does his potency only seem to magnify every time I see him? Considering the number of times he fucked me last night… Were the last two times my imagination? Had he actually gone down on me? He’d made me come, then kissed me, making sure I’d tasted our joined-up fluids. I flick out my tongue and his nostrils flare. Even across the room, I swear I can see his biceps expand. His shoulders stretch the width of the custom-made shirt. No tie, of course.
