Page 100 of The Billionaire's Fake Wife
"Won’t last forever. And I demand a 25% share of the profits of FOK Media."
"No way." Edward shakes his head.
"There you are." Saint snickers. "Wondered how long it would take for the asshole part of you to show up.
"It was never gone. I had it temporarily shielded out of deference to the rest of you."
Edward frowns. "Here I thought your bride was finally beginning to round off your edges."
"Never." I crack my neck from side to side, trying to loosen the muscles that have somehow knotted themselves up. Where the fuck is she, anyway?
I glance at my watch again. "Seventeen minutes." I breathe. "No one… No one has kept me waiting this long."
"There’s always a first time." Saint rocks back on his heels.
"Wait until you stand in this position, dipshit."
He chuckles, "Never gonna happen."
"Never fucking say never." I grumble.
"Think you can refrain from swearing for another few minutes?" Edward stares past me, then stiffens.
An electric tingle runs down my back. She's here. Silence descends. A complete and utter stillness. My skin tightens. My throat closes. I should turn, I should. I stare straight ahead. There’s no music—my choice. This wasn’t supposed to be a fucking happy occasion. It is a formality. I needed enough gravitas to convince her old man, who is about five minutes away from the house, so Peter has informed me. I’d timed this down to the last detail. Good thing they’d been stuck in traffic and had taken a little longer than expected to arrive. That’s how much to the last detail I had orchestrated this little circus; the only thing I hadn’t expected was for my bride to screw it all up—back up a second. Not my bride—my business partner. No, hostage, in this little arrangement that will ensure I can finally put the ghosts of my past behind me and... Her scent envelops me. Cherries and caramel laced with that mysterious note of anticipation. A uniquely feminine scent that could belong to only one woman. Her.
Don’t turn, don’t.
I pivot, and every muscle in my body tenses. All of my senses hone in on her. My vision narrows; the blood drums at my temple. She didn’t. No way.
A long line breaks through the slit on the skirt that runs to mid-thigh. The lace and chiffon clings to the curves of her waist, nipped in to show off that impossibly tiny circumference, that begs me to wrap my hands around her body and haul her close; before I place her across my lap and spank that luscious butt for what she’s done. That dress… She doesn’t wear it, she owns it. It is her.
The fact that it is a neon pink sets off the color of her hair that pours in glorious waves around her face. Bold. Daring. It personifies that streak of sassiness that she tries so hard to hide, and which slips through the cracks in her facade anyway, especially when I push her. She can’t control it. No more than I can rein in the desire that rushes to the fore. My groin hardens. My dick twitches. I take in the proud thrust of her breasts, ensconced in the delicate lace that runs up her chest, and over one shoulder.
I bet if she turns around, I’ll see the plunging dip of the dress at the back. My fingers tingle. How dare she exhibit herself so?
Next to me, Saint draws in a sharp breath.
I don’t need to turn to find out that he’s turned on. All of my friends—no, strike that —none of them deserve to be called anything except my most hated acquaintances because they’ve seen her in that dress.
I want to tear the fabric off of her, bury my nose in the cloth and drag her essence into my lungs. Right before I spin her around, bend her at the waist and claimed her for myself. Imprint myself in every orifice of her body, until every pore on her skin oozes with my sperm. Fuck.
"Who is she?"
"What do you mean?" I growl. "She’s my bride."
"Not her." Saint jerks his chin. "The other woman, in the golden-brown sheath who just walked in."
The hell is he talking about?
There is no other woman here except the siren wrapped in that delectable dress that I am going to ensure will be burned. Only so that she’ll never tease me again with the hint of flesh that peeks from between that slit as she takes a step forward. Another.
Summer’s gaze locks with mine, holds.
Her hips sway under the silky soft fabric. Her cheeks are pale, despite the blusher. Good. I narrow my gaze and her throat moves as she swallows. She is within a foot of me when I glare at her. Her pupils dilate. Her chin trembles. She pauses.
Don’t give up now, little Bird. Come closer. Closer.
She inches toward me. Her scent deepens. The pulse at the base of her throat flutters with such speed that I am sure she is not only afraid but also aroused. As turned on as I am in this instant, my cock jumps forward, and I widen my stance to accommodate my arousal. Bet it’s clear to the rest how aroused I am, but what-bloody-ever.
She takes the final step that brings her within a few inches of me. Nervousness vibrates off of her. She blinks and the chemistry between us seems to ratchet up. Takes another step, then pitches forward.
