Page 29 of Princess of Pride
“Gawk a little more, why don’t you?” Pippa, who hadn’t been engaged to Hunt yet and didn’t even know him, appeared at my side.
“I’m not gawking, I’m enjoying the view.”
“You look pathetic. Wipe your chin.”
“Shut up,” I snapped but discreetly wiped my chin in case Ihadbeen drooling.
“He is a fantasy though.” Pippa swirled the champagne in her glass, her gaze sharp and calculating. Dad wouldn’t let me drink, but she could and she was only nineteen at the time.
“Why is he here?”
“Duh. That’s Dad’s new investor. This party is for him.”
“That’s Lachlan?” I’d only heard Dad say his first name. I imagined another older man.
“Maybe Dad will choose him to be my suitor. I wouldn’t complain.” She sipped her champagne, eyeing him like he was her next conquest.
Dad never set them up. He chose Hunt instead, but she wanted Lachlan. She talked about him a lot until she was silenced by Mom and told to be the fiancé Hunt deserves—and she did. She became that girl who constantly bragged about how amazing her man was like she was trying to sell him.
“Hunt’s the smartest, the most handsome, the most caring, the best in bed.”I got so tired of hearing it. She even bragged about how she had an orgasm on their wedding night, the first time she had sex, which was supposed to be impossible. Like Hunt was a legend.
She liked to rub things in my face back then, but she stopped for the month that I lived with her. She was nice even.
Now, I’m married to the man she wanted all those years ago. Maybe that’s why her bitch switch is back on.
“You may kiss your bride,” the officiant says, drawing my attention from the memory and earning my sharp gaze.
“Hisbride. His?Thebride is perfectly acceptable.”
The world around me surfaces in a rush: the string quartet softly playing in the background, the clapping of the audience, even though we haven’t kissed yet.
I focus on Lachlan, seeing him for the first time since he left me sitting on the bed in the room. He doesn’t look that different from when I first spotted him across the ballroom those few years ago. A couple of crinkles around his eyes, light scruff, and a shrewdness that wasn’t in his gaze before. Maybe it was, and I never got close enough to see it. He must have looked at me all those years ago, only I never knew. He planned this—if he was telling the truth. He chose me, and I didn’t have a clue. Did my father? Unlikely. He would have married me off at eighteen if he knew.
Why me? Why not Pippa? Why let me believe he’s gay? Why orchestrate all of this? Why wait until today to be honest? Is this what he was going to confess three weeks ago before he got called to Scotland?
“Yes. Mine,” Lachlan states, drawing my attention. “My bride. My wife.Mine.”
He closes the distance between us. His aqua eyes bore into mine with a triumphant gleam that fills my stomach with burning anger. He slides his hand around my waist and hoists me against him, possessively.
“Remember to breathe.” He bends slowly, holding my gaze. His other hand cups my cheek, a display of romance for the crowd guaranteed to make all the women here swoon. I won’tlie; it feels good to be held this way and to be singled out by this man.
I keep my arms hanging at my sides and narrow my gaze in challenge. He thinks he owns me. His lips brush mine in a seductive temptation that sends a spark to my core. He knows exactly what he’s doing; such a sly pretender to make me think he was gay.
The moment his lips press against mine, signaling he’s going to kiss me stupid, I jerk my head back and slap him across the cheek.
The crowd gasps.
“Emery!” Mom’s voice rings out.
The shock of my smack is on me more than Lachlan or the crowd. My husband doesn’t jerk away or react as if I hurt him, let alone took him by surprise. Instead, he remains composed, his gaze glowing with anger and excitement.
In my ear, he whispers, “Do that again, and I’ll tear this dress off and fuck you right here in front of everyone. Your beautiful breasts on display for all to see but only mine to feast upon.”
I gasp, disgusted and astonishingly turned on in a way that doesn’t make me proud of myself.
“Kiss me like you’re my bride,” Lachlan orders for only me to hear.
He takes my chin in a firm hold and devours my lips. I feel the kiss all the way down to my toes. He pushes his tongue into my mouth, twirling it with sensual strokes. In terms of kissing, this man ranks a fifty on a scale of one to ten. My body goes limp like before as tingles race to my core, soaking my lace thong. His big hand, tight on my waist, burns through my dress. A loud moan escapes my throat, drawing me from my senses to awareness.
