Page 202 of Morally Black Betrothal
On her ring finger.
On her left hand.
Which meant?—
“I realize this is kind of a weird question, but…did we get married last night?”
I stared at the ring. Then at her face. Then at my own left hand, where—oh,fuck—a matching band wrapped around my ring finger like chalk around a body at a crime scene.
What the fuck had I done?
The girl—my wife, apparently, because my life had morphed into a bad romantic comedy—stood there looking like she might either cry or bolt. Possibly both. Those green eyes were as bright as freshly cut limes, and she was clutching that sheet like it was the only thing keeping her from being dragged into the underworld.
That was when the craziest fucking thought I’d ever had the privilege of having crossed my mind:Things could be worse.
I preened for a half second when the girl’s gaze flickered down to my boxer briefs and back up, then channeled every ounce of the charm that had gotten me in and out of impossible situations. This was fine. This was manageable. Shit, this might even solve my CEO problem as long as my accidental wife wasn’t a serial killer or a socialist.
Redistribution of wealth doesn’t really jibe with billionaires, you know?
“I suppose reintroductions are overdue, then,” I said, extending my hand like we were at a fucking networking event instead of standing next to naked in the middle of my hotel suite. “Hello. Wife. I’m Ronan. Ronan Black.”
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FROM BOSS OF THE YEAR
A BOSS-EMPLOYEE, AGE GAP ROMANCE
“Are you a dirty girl? Are you a dirty little whore who wants to come out and play?”
“Yes,I’m your dirty little slut. Give it to me hard, just like I want it.”
Flesh met flesh with loud, wet slaps, like elephant ears at a water park.
There was a squelch. Then another one. Followed by a lot of grunting, and some sloppy, sopping noises that might have been kissing or possibly a mouth on some other body part.
Could you call it kissing if it wasn’t on the mouth?
I was embarrassed to admit I didn’t know.
No one was fighting it, though. In fact, by the sounds coming out of the bedroom, at least one of them was feeling pretty good. Maybe even in heaven.
Which, good for them. Especially since I, Marie Annetta Zola, was almost certainly in hell.
“Fuck, yeah, that feels amazing.”
I had heard Daniel Lyons’s voice many different ways over the ten years I’d worked for his family. Snarling with frustration when he lost money on a horse race. Shouting for joy when hisfather presented him with a new Aston Martin on his twenty-first birthday. Droning with boredom when he met with his tutors.
Sly when he planned a new party. Sweet when he spoke to his mother. Sultry when he greeted a friend’s daughter.
I’d never heardthisparticular timbre, though. One where he was apparently lost in the throes of passion.
It…wasn’t what I imagined.
