Page 5 of Savage Debt (The Debt Tales 2)

Chapter Three

Nero

Iknow marriage isn’t easy, but I thought for sure a forced, fake one wouldn’t be so difficult.

Elle’s beautiful, brown-skinned face tilts in what I hate is becoming my favorite fashion. “You gonna help me or what?”

“No.”

She rolls her eyes and wiggles her toes – a delightful tick that never fails to get my dick stirring. “Why not?”

“Because I’m a grown ass man, and building sandcastles is juvenile.”

“I could bury you in the sand instead.”

Her snarky retort receives a small smirk.

Not only did the shoe fit, but I couldn’t ignore the unusual relief in my chest when it did. It was almost as if I would’ve been…disappointed…if it didn’t. Which would be some bullshit. I have no attachments to this woman. No genuine cares or concerns. She is a means to an end – an end her stepfather created without proper permission.

I could’ve done without my share of the inheritance or at least had no pressing need for it if it weren’t for his fuckup. His fuckup becomes my fuckup. And my fuckup is costly to the family – and we can’t have that.

“Fine, don’t help with this,” she offhandedly states while leaning over to drive the little shovel into the sand. “But you do need to help with what I’m supposed to tell people at our wedding reception tonight.”

It takes divine intervention to pull my gaze away from where her tits are pouring out of her designer, baby blue bikini top. “Regarding?”

“Uh…how about all the basics?” She sassily reports during the scooping up of sand. “How’d we meet? How long we’ve been together? How’d you propose? Why’d we elope?” Her initial mad rush of questions is followed by her dumping said sand into a nearby bucket. “What’s your favorite food? What’s your favorite color? T.V. show? Movie? Childhood celebrity crush?”

“Paula Abdul.”

My comment causes her to cease all movements to shoot me an amused grin. “Really?”

“Oh yeah.” Reaching over to grab the other shovel to begrudgingly assist in this childish task, I return the question, “You?”

“DiCaprio.”

It’s my turn to roll my eyes, and not just because I’d sink his ass on another ship if he came anywhere near my wife.

Fake wife.

We’re pretending, but that doesn’t mean I’d be okay with her fucking one of America’s most famous actors while we’re together for the next few months. I have to keep my dick in this marriage – per the non-cheating clause in the will – therefore, she should have to keep her legs closed. Unless it’s to me. And fuck, I would love her luscious legs splayed wide open for me. We’ve only been “together” one week, and I’m already losing my fucking mind and fighting blue balls from watching her do sexy shit. The lacy pajamas she flounces around the house in have me jerking off before morning meetings, and getting a glimpse of her ass when the wind blows her summer dresses up has me damn near begging for her to lend a hand to alleviating the pressures in my nuts.

Too bad we’re barely on the other side of the tolerating part of this arrangement.

For the first two days, she barely spoke to me more than she had to. The next two she made idle conversation over meals. These last three, however, she’s finally started to really warm up to me. She’s asked for things she needs and even expressed an interest in my business. This little one-on-one outing was an impromptu idea she had during breakfast. Something about wanting to see her smile for hours and her in less clothing with her perfect tiny toes wiggling around the hot sand led to me rescheduling my entire afternoon.

Like a good fiancé.

A good, fake fiancé.

“Why don’t you tell me about your family? Maybe starting with your grandmother?” Her suggestion is attached to her shoveling once more. “Were you close?”

“As close as she was to any of her grandsons,” I reply and dump sand into the bucket. “The DeLuca batch is a rather big one.”

She shoots me an intrigued smirk. “Go on…”

And so, I do. For the next couple of hours, we scoop, dump, and maneuver sand to create a small fortress while I provide her with a rundown of the family. Dark and dangerous to expose details, of course, are excluded, but simply sharing with someone random shit from my childhood is strangely enough fun. She shares things from her life before Edwin, and there’s no denying the difference in her expression.

Our conversation remains light and innocent through most of the constructing, yet when we finish, I take a slightly more teasing one. “I hope you know this flimsy shit would never have the DeLuca Construction Company name attached to it.”

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