6. Cora
Cora
Brady whistles cheerfully to himself as he escorts me out of the ballroom and toward the elevators. It takes me a moment to recognize his tune is “I Only Have Eyes for You.” I refuse to think of it as our song, but for some reason, it makes my shoulders unbunch, just a bit.
When the elevator doors open, my new husband gestures for me to step in first. He floats his hand over my lower back, but he doesn’t touch me. Though I take that as a good sign, I’m still mentally rehearsing my speech. I really only have bits and pieces of it prepared.
No, I will not be performing any “wifely duties.” And, I am my own person, and you will respect that. And even, Keep your fucking hands to yourself.
The elevator climb is short and smooth, but my stomach lurches. By the time Brady gestures me into our honeymoon suite, all of my insides are churning. He closes the door behind us, and the light snick of the lock clanks in my ears like the padlock on my tomb.
“Champagne?” Brady asks me, casual as can be as he saunters over to the bar. There’s now a champagne bucket with a new bottle of Dom chilling in it, and two new champagne flutes.
“No, thank you,” I say firmly.
Brady quirks an eyebrow at me but says nothing. He pops the champagne so loudly the cork flies clear across the room, bouncing twice and rolling to a stop near the open door to the bedroom.
He shucks off his jacket before pouring himself a glass, then kicks off his shoes and flops down onto the plush loveseat. Staring at me with his piercing eyes, he takes a large sip of champagne. I look away.
His jacket and shoes lie haphazardly on the floor, and I realize my billionaire husband must have an army of housekeepers to clean up after him. I also realize my feet are killing me.
Brady tracks my every move as I make my way to the bar, slip out of my heels, and leave them neatly in the corner between the bar and the wall. I hear him chuckle at my meticulousness, and my temper flares. I whirl on him.
He’s smirking at me. With deliberate slowness, he glides his free hand over the empty cushion beside him, then lightly pats it twice.
“No, thank you,” I say again.
Brady shrugs and sets his champagne on the side table.
With practiced fingers, he unties his bowtie and tosses it to the floor.
All of his movements are languid, as if to intentionally stretch out time as I watch him.
After undoing the top three buttons of his shirt, he leans back with his hands behind his head.
Everything about him screams confident, powerful, arrogant.
I hate him for it.
But whether or not I hate someone, I’m always mindful of the power they wield, especially how it compares to mine. Call it part of my willfulness, my constant awareness of my inner strength. Brady O’Sullivan’s power might dwarf mine for now, but I know my potential.
He quirks another eyebrow at me, a silent Well?
I clench my fists at my sides, digging my nails into my palms so I can focus on the pain.
“I will not be performing any wifely duties,” I tell my husband.
He laughs at me. It could be a laugh of surprise, but all I hear is scorn. I swallow hard.
“I’m not having sex with you,” I clarify. “I will not be sleeping with you tonight, or any time in the future.”
Brady shrugs again, as if I’ve told him the most boring weather report.
“Suit yourself. My penthouse has two spare bedrooms, so you can take your pick. Our penthouse,” he corrects with a grin.
I’d known that moving in with him was part of the arrangement I’d agreed to. But hearing him say Our penthouse makes it all too real. I grope for the remaining pieces of my prepared speech, but they scatter away from me.
“Just because I’m sharing your apartment does not mean I’m sharing your STIs,” I say.
I hear how ridiculous it sounds, but when Brady starts to laugh, I talk over him.
“And I’m not performing the wifely duty of bearing your children, either.
I have an IUD, and I have no intention of getting rid of it. ”
My face goes hot as soon as I say this last part. It made sense in my head. I know his family is Irish Catholic, but I don’t know his personal opinion on birth control, so I wanted to make sure he knows mine. But of course, the way I phrased it sounded like an invitation to have protected sex.
He cocks his head at me.
“Do you really think the only reasons to have sex are to get pregnant and swap STIs?”
My throat is so dry I don’t trust myself to speak. I try to shake my head, but I’m standing too rigidly. With my neck stiff and my knees locked, it feels like breaking my pose in any way would be a form of yielding.
Brady chuckles to himself and pulls out his phone.
He taps through it unhurriedly, then holds the screen out to me.
Given that I’m several feet away, all I can see is a white background with black text.
Brady makes no move to get up from the loveseat, nor does he show any sign of impatience that I’m still halfway across the room.
He simply keeps holding out his phone, as if he couldn’t care less whether I see what’s on it or not.
I feel my right knee bend, my curiosity getting the better of me. Then I’m stepping forward, approaching him, doing everything I can to keep my movements as nonchalant as his.
To my surprise, Brady hands me his phone, rather than making me bend down to see. Our fingers brush, unintentionally on my part. The brief contact rushes heat through me, and my palms get so sweaty I have to readjust my grip on his phone before I can read it.
It’s a medical report with Brady’s name, the visit date two days ago. Beneath it, a litany of STI test results dated yesterday. All negative. My sweaty hands slip on the phone, and I recover by tossing it back at Brady, a clumsy throw. He catches it deftly.
“So you can forge test results,” I say. “That’s cool.”
He scowls at the accusation. It’s a dangerous expression, but I hold my ground.
“I’m a doctor,” I tell him. I prefer to call myself an ophthalmologist, but doctor works best with arrogant men like him. “Tests like this take at least three days to process.”
Brady’s scowl melts away, and his lips slide into a one-sided smile.
“The O’Sullivan name can achieve quite a lot in this town.” He sets aside his phone like he’s won his point, the evidence no longer needed.
I put my hands on my hips to show I don’t believe him. Beneath my overheated palms, the silk of my exquisite gown is cool to the touch. Damn it. The O’Sullivan name did get me a tailored Oscar de la Renta in two days.
That name, in this city, wields power. Brady’s always had access to it.
But now I do too. And I’m not about to let him win whatever weird argument this is.
“So you’re the type of guy who needs frequent and rapid testing, then?”
“No,” he laughs. “I’m the type of man who gets tested as soon as he’s told he’s being given a wife.”
“Being given?” I spit out the words. “I was not given to you. I chose this. I made my decision, you said so yourself.”
“So…” Brady runs the tip of his finger around the rim of his champagne flute, calm as ever despite my outrage. “You’re saying you’ve chosen to give yourself to me?”
I’m rigid again. It’s the only way I can maintain my self-assurance right now.
Brady trails his finger down the side of the glass, slicking through the condensation in a way that makes me shiver. I wish I were back halfway across the room like before, instead of only two feet in front of him.
But here I am. I stand as tall as I can, looking down at him in his relaxed pose on the loveseat.
“I am not giving myself to you,” I say through gritted teeth. “And I will not let you force yourself on me, either.”
His sharp features harden.
“I have never forced myself on a woman,” he says sternly. Then he gives me a smug grin and adds, “I’ve never had to.”
I want to slap that grin off his face, while images of him with a series of willing women blur behind my eyes.
Brady, naked, his muscular body above a figure on a bed, her hands clinging to his broad shoulders and her legs wrapped around his waist as he moves inside her, her mouth open in ecstasy, the rest of her indistinct features resolving, sharpening into—
I blink rapidly as I recover myself.
“Congratulations,” I say, my voice an off-key squeak.
I don’t care about Brady’s history with women. I don’t. All that matters is how he treats me, his future, which means I need to test him.
“I suppose you also tell yourself you never would?” I goad.
He surges to his feet, all six feet two of him looming over me in the space of a heartbeat.
I stop breathing. There’s an inch of space between our bodies, and I’m rooted to the spot.
With my face craned upward, Brady’s eyes bore down into mine.
The scent of him fills my nostrils, masculine and deep.
I try to stay rigid, but I feel myself melting, about to dissolve.
In one swift movement, Brady wraps his arms around me and crushes his lips down to mine.
My nerve endings ignite. Beneath his strength, I bend back a little, my body liquid as he holds me securely.
It’s like our first kiss at the altar, but somehow even more overwhelming, every inch of me vibrating with desire.
I feel Brady splay one hand against the small of my back, then yank me forward so I’m pressed against his body. I gasp at the feel of him, his cock hard and huge against my belly, even through all our layers of fabric. The muscles of my core clench in response, and I feel myself slick with desire.
When Brady breaks our kiss, I let out a soft moan, an involuntary noise of disappointment. He’s still holding me, but he’s pulled back to look at my face, my eyes, my lips. The front of my body feels cold without him pressed against me.
We’re both breathing hard.
Me, because my body is desperate for the feel of him again.
But for Brady, it’s like he’s at war with himself.
His entire frame is tense but shaking, as if he’s holding himself back by the thinnest thread, fighting the urge to snap free, to clutch me to him again.
I know I shouldn’t, but I want him to.
When he speaks, it’s as if every syllable is a battle. But it’s still his low, rough growl.
“I’m not going to fuck you until you beg for my cock,” he says. And with that, he pushes himself away, turning his back to me and striding across the room.
I stand weak-kneed and gasping as his words rumble through my body. When he reaches the bedroom door, he turns to face me, his control firmly back in place.
“And you will beg for my cock,” he promises.
He leaves the door open behind him, and I collapse onto the loveseat.
I’ve only had one glass of champagne, but the room swirls around me, the creamy shapes of furniture as incoherent as the thoughts in my head. I squeeze my eyes shut. In the darkness, I force an imaginary comb through my tangle of unruly thoughts, forcing them into an orderly shape.
Despite all of my earlier anxiety, I didn’t have to resort to self-defense.
Instead, my husband told me he wasn’t going to fuck me, which is exactly what I’d wanted.
I’ll be his wife in name only. I’ll live in a separate bedroom of a penthouse that’s probably enormous.
I’ll barely see him. A marriage certificate and a shared mailbox will be enough to fulfill my end of this agreement.
And you will beg for my cock.
An unmanageable snarl of a thought, with too many confusing feelings knotted up with it. So my body reacted to his kiss. So maybe it was stronger than any reaction I’ve ever felt from a kiss before. So what?
That doesn’t change what an asshole he is, kissing me like that after I told him I’m not having sex with him. The sheer presumption of it was disrespectful. By that act alone, it’s clear he does not see me as an equal. Brady O’Sullivan is a mafia man through and through, possessive and arrogant.
And it’s his arrogance that provides me with my motivation. I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
I will never beg for his cock.