7. Raif
“Wait.”
I watch her shoulders hunch as though she’s expecting a great weight to fall on her.
I don’t answer because my mind is working on a delay. Which could be the fault of the fucking bikini she’s wearing. My tongue feels at least two feet long in my mouth, like if I open it to speak, it might roll out.
“Is there something—”
I hold up my hand, silencing Moreno.
“I have to tell you something,” Lavender says, her eyes anywhere but on me.
“It can’t wait?” Tension tightens my gut. There’s so much at stake. I’m almost there, yet…
Fucking Lavender Whittington.
If I’d known she would be so much trouble, I would’ve chosen someone else.
No, you wouldn’t, whispers a voice in my head. Not now. And not because of her brother.
Fuck that. I don’t like women to be a handful. Other than when I want my hands full of them. My gaze slides over her, the knitted fabric of her tiny dress providing little in the way of coverage. Her bikini even less so.
Who brings a bikini to a wedding she had no choice in?
I push the tangle of thoughts away, ignoring the puff of surprise from the registrar and the offended harrumph of the paper pusher behind me. I sense my security team stirring subtly. They’re here mainly to witness the happy event, but I also know they’re staring at Lavender’s ass. I can’t blame them. Or blind them. But I might need them to make sure everyone stays until this thing is done.
Including Lavender fucking Whittington.
“Can it wait?” Lavender blinks as though just considering this. “Apparently not.” She seems annoyed by her own answer.
“Well, what is it?”
“I need you to know,” she begins visibly drawing her shoulders higher still. “That I am in love with Tod.”
I almost chuckle. No, princess. No, you are not. Not even a little.
“Okay.” I give a tiny shrug, a one-shouldered one. “That it?”
“Yes.” A dozen things flicker across her face, chief of them, disappointment.
“Okay.” I turn back to the registrar and make a slight gesturefor him to continue.
“Wait, doesn’t that bother you?”
“It’s not a requirement.” I don’t spare a glance her way. Maybe that’s why the register thinks I’m asking him.
“No, but—”
“I wasn’t asking for your opinion,” I drawl, cutting him off.
“N-no,” he stammers, “of course not. I was just about to say that there is nothing specifically mentioned in the legalities that—”
“Good.” I flick my bride-to-be a look. “Well?” She looks pretty pissed.
“I can’t believe you’re not bothered.”
“Sorry, princess.” I allow my gaze to fall slowly over her. “Give Tod your heart. It’s your body I need.”
I realize how callous that sounds as soon as the words are out of my mouth. I need her physically—as a wife. That was my intent. My whole intent. But you know what they say about best-laid plans going awry.
Which is just another way of saying they get fucked.
Hell, she’ll be wife in more than just name, which is something I hadn’t planned on making a requirement.
So we’ll call her interjection a happy accident.
“My body?” she says mostly to herself, her lush mouth seeming to exaggerate the words. “You didn’t mention anything about my body,” she adds in a stage whisper.
My gaze roams over her again, purposely misunderstanding her. “Surely that can’t be right.”
“That’s what I’m saying! You can’t just chuck last-minute changes into this arrangement.”
“Marriage,” I correct gravely. “And I think you’ll find I can do what I want.”
And what I want is to fuck her. Which is all kinds of wrong.
Her arm drops, along with it, her bouquet. What the hell was I thinking sending Antonio to buy fucking flowers? Was I trying to soothe his feathers or hers?
“Think of your mother,” he’d said. “Such a kind, blessed woman. What would she say if she were here?”
“Doesn’t mean I’ll go along with it.”
Her huffy exclamation brings me out of my musing.
What would my mother say? Probably that Lavender looks like the kind of wife I deserve.
“Are you listening to me?”
“Yeah.”
Fuck it.
“Excuse us for a moment.” Taking her hand, I cross the terrace, tugging her along in my wake. The glass doors to the villa are already open. I close them behind us with a definite thunk.
“Well, there was no need to drag me,” she scolds, pulling on the hem of her dress—coverall—cover-up, cover-nothing goddammit!
“I’m sorry,” I say tersely, “though dragged is an overstatement. But I thought you might prefer a little privacy for this conversation.”
I cross to the bar and, uncorking the scotch, make a casual gesture. Want one?
Lavender shakes her head and offers an equally terse, “It’s a little early for me.”
“Or late, depending on your perspective. I didn’t sleep on the flight.” I was too wired. Unlike Sleeping Beauty, my body clock still thinks it’s nighttime.
She folds her arms across her chest, the happy effect making them a perfect frame for her breasts. It also lifts her cover-up. Damn, those legs.
“What are you smiling about?”
You traversing the room. The little flt-flt of your flip-flops.
Shibshib, my mother’s voice corrects in my head.
“Do I need a reason? Maybe I’m just a happy person.”
She makes a dismissive noise as she sets her bouquet on the bar next to my elbow. “You said this was business. You never mentioned anything about sex.”
“I didn’t think I had to,” I reply disingenuously, pouring a shot into my glass. “The fact is, a wedding—”
“Civil ceremony.”
“—requires consummation.”
“Says who?” She screws her nose up in disbelief.
“The law. More specifically, The Matrimonial Causes Act of 1973,”—I’m kind of glad Lachlan insisted on this discussion—“which states the inability or refusal to consummate a marriage is grounds for annulment. And that’s a risk I won’t take.”
“Who’d know?” she demands, flipping out a dismissive hand.
“Whoever you told.”
“Why do you assume I would be the one telling?”
“Because you have the least to lose.” Because this hasn’t been months in the making for you.
“I suppose a million must be small change to you,” she mutters. “Anyway, what about your entourage? It might be one of them who lets it slip.”
“No one is letting it slip.” Their NDAs are watertight, and the consequences are severe.
“Well, I wouldn’t tell anybody.”
“As I said, that’s not a risk I’m willing to take. I don’t need this marriage to look legitimate. I need it to be legitimate.”
Oh, how I’ve changed my tune because when Lachlan, my lawyer, had broached the annulment risk, I’d told him I didn’t want the headache of a romantic entanglement. Been there, tried that, and failed.
I required the union to be nothing but a business arrangement, arguing that Lavender’s precarious financial position would guarantee her silence. The numbers were a balance because it’s not like she’d ever be destitute, not related to Leif Whittington. I need the sum to be enticing enough and the threats to be real enough.
But then I’d gotten my mouth on her, and all other considerations had flown out of the window. I can’t seem to think of much else right now but sucking on her clit again.
It’s not like I’m expecting her to fuck me and not be into it. Because she was into it. The things she said, the noises she made that, hours later, still make me hard.
I’m not greedy, but I’ve had a lot of sex. Fucked a lot of women. But I’ve never gone down on one I’d just met. Or with such zeal. When I said she melted like sugar on my tongue, I wasn’t kidding. And sugar isn’t addictive for no reason.
She is not pouting, I think as I glance her way.
Is she?
My chest tightens as she drops her chin. No. Fuck no, is she about to cry?
Why do I have to be such an asshole? But before I can smooth things over—though fuck knows how—she opens her mouth and sets me on my ass.
“I want double,” she demands as her head comes up quick. “Double your original offer.” Those beautiful blue eyes narrow as she leans closer, bringing with her the scent of vanilla and cinnamon. It’s little wonder I want to devour her.
“You do?” My answer hit the air in an easy breath, a grin tugging at my lips.
“Two million or I walk.”
So much for tears. She looks luminous as she delivers her ultimatum. Fierce, like a fucking Valkyrie.
“So we’re negotiating?” I put my glass to my mouth.
“No negotiation. It’s what I want. If you want… me.”
Christ, I do want her with a strength that should frighten me in the opposite direction. I don’t have time for complications, and I’m not interested in the risk that comes with relationships. But none of that seems to change a thing right now.
“Why stop at two?” I set my glass back on the bar as uncertainty flickers in her expression. “Ah, my apologies. You said we weren’t negotiating.”
If Lachlan could hear me, he’d piss himself. I never take a bet I can’t fix. Gambling is a fool’s game, yet here I am, up to my neck.
“And I want your car,” she adds quickly.
“My car?”
“Is there an echo in here?” She hooks her elbow on the bar, all playful petulance and attitude.
Fucking her is going to be so much fun.
“So we are negotiating.” Mirroring her position and posture, I add, “Good girl.”
“Don’t patronize me.” Her breath is a soft brush against my lips.
“I wouldn’t dare.”
“Yes, you would. Or else I wouldn’t be here in the first place.”
“But now that you are, you want to make the experience worth it, right?”
She quirks a brow, and I get the insane urge to place my teeth over it. Bite a little. Lick her brow.
“Stop fucking me with your eyes, Raif.”
“That’s not what I want to fuck you with, princess.”
“Why do you insist on calling me that?”
“Because that’s what you are. It’s what I made you. A pillow princess, the kind I want nothing from but her pussy on my face.”
“That’s not true, though, is it?”
“It’s where I’ll start.”
“Maybe I should call you Rita. I’m beginning to think she might be your lesbian alter ego.”
“I remember you calling me God.”
She tsks. “The hubris,” she mutters under her breath. “You wouldn’t be my first lesbian.”
“Are you trying to shock me or turn me on?”
“Two million and your car,” she retorts when I don’t exactly bite.
“Which car would that be?” I know, I’m a smart-ass.
She opens her mouth, then seems to catch herself. “Whichever one is worth the most.”
“That would be the McLaren.”
“That one, then.” She pivots away. “Two million and—”
“Not so fast.” My fingers fold around her arm, halting her in her tracks. My gaze dips to that space, the hairs on my wrist pricking like pins. It’s the second time touching her has felt like this. The first time was in the Chelsea house. I’d already had my mouth on her, but when she’d pulled away, my reaction had been visceral. Animal. Demanding.
I bring my free arm around her waist, pulling her body flush against mine. The round of her ass hits my thighs. I want to pull her to her toes to right the gap, but instead, I put my lips to her neck. She gives the tiniest of gasps.
“I thought we were negotiating.”
“But you said—”
“One million for the arrangement. Two with a wedding night. Sleep in my bed every night, and I’ll double it.”
“I already said I wouldn’t—”
“That was before we were negotiating.” Before I knew I needed this.
“Define sleep,” she demands.
It’s good that she can’t see my face or watch my slow-growing smile.
“It can be whatever you want it to be. For five million plus the car.” I must be out of my mind because I will go higher.
I feel her swallow. Hear her hesitation as she whispers, “Why me?”
No one ever questions my actions. I do what I do because I can.
My free hand glides over her hip and down over the front of her thigh, where my fingers curl inward. I can’t seem to stop them from sliding up the inside.
“Why not? I trail my fingers over the soft pout of her inner thigh, her skin like silk. “Say yes, Lavender. Let me touch you. Let me feed on your soft sighs. Swallow your held breaths and make them mine.”
“Please.” The word hits the air in a soft exhale that sounds like a siren call.
I press my palm to her pussy. “Ah, princess, you’re burning for me here.”
“The p-people,” she stutters, her body jolting forward as I curl my middle finger inward.
I don’t bother looking up. Out on the sun-drenched terrace, men in light-colored suits wait for us.
“Let them wait. They can’t see in.” Would I give a damn if they could? Yes, I decide. I wouldn’t share her for anything.
I slide my foot between hers, widening her stance. Something inside me unclenches as her body melts against me like wax.
Lavender exhales a stuttering sigh as my mouth slides across the nape of her neck. The tips of my fingers slip under her white bikini bottoms, and we both groan.
“How you’ve made a glutton out of me.”