12. Corm
Chapter 12
Corm
S aar’s eyes widen as she grabs a napkin and spits into it. We’re seated around the kitchen island since my dining room is out of commission.
As much as I’m pissed about a fucking diner replacing my dining room, this setup seems better for the purposes of the cozy, natural experience we’re trying to sell. Better for my image.
“This is delicious, Corm,” Diane exclaims. “The best chicken pie I’ve ever had.”
Saar blinks a few times and looks at Diane like she’s just grown a horn. I guess my beautiful fiancée doesn’t like the extra spoon of Tabasco I doctored her portion with.
Not my proudest moment. In my defense, I had planned it to punish her for desecrating my house.
I briefly abandoned the childish idea when she flinched under the flash of the camera. She should be used to the dog-and-pony show, but clearly something in the whole setup triggered her. It was obvious the minute she stepped into the kitchen.
Her struggle awakened something primal in me. Like it’s my job to protect this woman.
And then she answered Diane’s questions, professionally and with a believable conviction.
The way she fucks around with the wedding planning, trying to rile me up all the time, the way she destroyed my house for fun, I was getting worried she might make me look worse, not better in the public eye.
But this woman is eloquent, well-mannered, and quite delightful company. And, apparently, a proficient liar.
And the absolute mind-fuck is that for a moment, I believed the ruse.
For a beat of insanity, I almost wished it was real. That she truly was my partner. There to support me. To trust. I didn’t even know I needed someone like that in my life.
And why the fuck did I kiss her?
She was looking at me with those doe eyes and I… I couldn’t resist her pull. It was a mistake. I returned to the kitchen so pissed that despite my better judgment, I poured hot sauce into her meal.
With her stupid antics—bouncy castle, carnival meal, and the trailer decor in my house—she turned me into a teenager. At least mentally. Not only because I return her pranks, but because my cock dictates my actions.
I should have known living under one roof with a supermodel would impact me. I’m only a man, after all. Yeah, keep telling yourself that it’s about her looks.
“Saar, I envy you. To have such a wonderful cook at your disposal.” Diane continues making noises like I was eating her pussy, not feeding her a simple dish.
“And that’s not even his best asset.” Saar glares at me with that fake smile plastered on her blushing face.
“So when is the wedding?” Diane takes a sip from her wine.
“We’re not in a hurry,” I say.
“The sooner, the better,” Saar says at the same time.
Diane’s eyes dart between me and my fiancée. “Oh, you haven’t set the date yet?”
This has been too long of a night. Fuck. “Diane, I have an early morning tomorrow. I don’t mean to rush you, but we should get the pictures done.”
“Of course.” She beckons the photographer with her eyes, and he drops his fork and picks up his camera.
Saar slides from the stool. “Where do you want us?”
Diane discusses a few ideas with her one-man crew, and then we follow their instructions, moving around the kitchen and playing the happy couple.
We pose for what feels like another two hours, but my watch confirms it’s only been twenty minutes.
Saar seems to have relaxed a bit, leaning into her expertise, but she looks tired, and every time I touch her—at the photographer’s bidding—she tenses.
I hate that I’m noticing it. She can’t wait to get away from me, and yet here I am, making it my responsibility to make her life somehow better. As if she cared. Or extended the same courtesy to me.
“I think we got it all.” Diane claps, and they start packing up. Thank fucking God.
It takes another forty minutes before they are out the door, and I rush to my living room to pour myself a glass of whiskey. Only to stop at the stupid plastic sheet I used to support the remodeling story.
Over my dead body would I have pics of that circus in a magazine.
“Fuck,” I mumble.
I find Saar in the kitchen, tidying up. I retrieve a bottle of vodka from the pantry and pour myself half a tumbler.
“Leave that for the housekeeper,” I growl, ready to retire to my bedroom and finish this hellish day.
“It’s nothing. If we leave it, Livia would have more work. It’s not a big deal to load the dishwasher and soak the pan.”
She moves around my kitchen like she’s done it many times. Elegant and efficient. She’s been living here for a minute and half and seems to know this space better than me.
I watch her with my glass halfway to my lips, kind of intrigued by the idea of sharing the space with someone. By the effortless domesticity of the moment.
The thought shocks me, so asshole that I am, I smirk. “I didn’t expect you to have a housewife in you.”
She sighs and looks at me with resignation. “You know nothing about me.”
The truth of that statement surprises me. And reminds me of the files Mathison sent me earlier.
“Not yet.” I shrug.
She snorts. “Not ever.”
She kicks the dishwasher door up and closes it with her hip. My cock twitches. This is the worst night ever.
She wipes the counter and moves a few things around. I should go to my room, but something keeps me here.
Like I’ve been stuck in a dark tunnel, and Saar van den Linden is the first flicker of light I’ve seen in ages. I know her flame will burn me, turn me to ash, but I’m still drawn to its warmth. Its glow. Its fleeting fragility.
Saar busies herself, not really doing much anymore. It’s like she is stalling. I hope to God she doesn’t want to talk about that kiss.
It was electric, and dangerously satisfying, but as I said, it was a moment of insanity. Though I probably didn’t need to be such an asshole about it.
She finally stops fidgeting and takes a deep breath. She clears her throat. “We should set the date.”
“I don’t feel too eager.” I down the vodka and glare at her.
Her eyes flare. “Are you for real? I’m not playing house with you, so you get everything and I get nothing. The sooner we marry, the sooner we can divorce.”
“That’s true. But given the shit you keep stirring…” I march across the room and yank at the plastic sheet covering the double door frame that leads to the dining room. “Case in point. I don’t feel very motivated to get you what you want from this arrangement.”
She rolls her eyes. She opens her mouth, closes it, and sighs. “Okay, you got back at me with the fucking inedible volcano pie—”
“Are you fucking kidding me? My prank doesn’t compare to this. Or to the cost of the wedding planner whose time you’re wasting.” I advance toward her, and she steps back, her back hitting the fridge. “I told you already, The Morrigan, play nice or you will regret it.”
Her breath hitches as she holds my gaze. “I promise to stop.” She swallows, and her throat moving sends shivers down my spine.
The woman fucking swallows and I’m aroused. Goddammit. While this thought travels through my useless mind, my brain gives up control or reason, and I grind my hips against her.
Her breath hitches. She fists my sweater, and for a moment I believe she’ll pull me closer. I can almost pinpoint the moment she decides against it, her expression smug.
“Momentary insanity again?” she taunts.
Fuck. I step away, and she dashes to the door. “The date, Corm.”
I run my hand through my hair. “Your promise is worth shit to me. Follow the script for a week, and we’ll set the date.”
“Asshole,” she mumbles, and turns, stumbling. She grips the edge of the counter and closes her eyes.
Before I know it, I’m by her side. “Are you dizzy again?”
“I’m okay.” But she doesn’t move.
“What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing.” But her answer is weak, and she slams against the stool, lowering her head to her palms. “I just need a moment.”
The pale skin, the shadows under her eyes… the lack of food. Fuck, and I kept her hungry tonight.
“I’m calling a doctor.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I haven’t been sleeping well, and I’m anemic.”
“Why?” I ask like an idiot, the feeling of helplessness foreign and unwelcome, but so very present.
“Obviously I had a career that fucked with my hormones, and the only thing I have to show for that is getting married to you.” She climbs on to the stool.
I sigh. “I’m calling a doctor.”
“Don’t be so dramatic. Can you just get me some apple juice from the fridge?”
I pour her a glass. She downs it. Fuck, she looks so tired.
“Let me heat up a meal for you.” I turn to pull something from the fridge. Damn it, Livia took it all. “I’ll make you a sandwich.”
“No hot sauce, please.”
“You don’t have to—” Saar yelps when I pick her up bridal-style.
“Shut up.” I carry her upstairs. “I’m not risking you fainting on the stairs and cracking your skull. Media would have a field day with that. I don’t need to be labeled an abuser.”
“That wouldn’t be that far-fetched.” She smirks.
“Again, shut up.” I scowl.
She weighs nothing, her hands are cold around my shoulders, her hip is protruding into my pecs, and yet… it’s like carrying precious cargo.
Like regardless of how much she hates me, or what stunts she orchestrates to piss me off, she’s my burden now, whether I like it or not.
I don’t like it, obviously, but there is a gentleman buried somewhere deep inside me, and that fucker decided to awaken. The worst timing ever.
The cavalier sentiment is about as welcome as the erection pressing against the zipper of my jeans. What the actual fuck is she doing to me?
It’s like her mere presence messes with my lifestyle, my values, and my general screw-you-all attitude. I fucking honed those all my life, and reinforced them after the old man surprised me from behind his grave. Only to lose them as soon as The Morrigan landed in my life.
Her defiance mingles with insecurity. Her sharp tongue is refreshing, but all the secrets and things she doesn’t say are even more intriguing. The walls she’s built around herself are thicker than mine.
And for the life of me, I don’t know why I want to break them. Like breaking them, breaking her, is the only interesting, invigorating thing in my life. Was I really that bored?
I kick the door to her room open and sit her down on the bed. “What do you sleep in?”
She frowns, smirking. “Really? I can get changed. I was a bit dizzy, not paralyzed.”
“I told you to behave if you want the wedding date. Lift your arms. I’ll help you get changed.” What am I doing?
“What if I sleep naked?”
Little tease. I grip her jaw, not too rough but firm enough to force her to look at me. “You keep running that pretty mouth of yours, and I will stuff it with my cock.”
She glares at me with heat and shock. Ha, so a bit of dirty talk does the trick to finally shut her up. Or did the innuendo—and again, what the fuck am I doing—fluster her?
Is Saar van den Linden a prude? Or is she inexperienced? Fuck, I need to get out of here before I investigate.
“Good night.” I drop her chin and practically run out of her room into mine.
I really should have given her a room that wasn’t in my immediate proximity. Is she really sleeping naked? What if she faints again and hits her head? Should I leave her alone?
I pull my sweater over my head, annoyed by everything and anything. I’m too tired to have a shower at this point, but I need to take care of the painful strain in my pants.
Dropping my jeans, I collapse into the armchair in the corner of my bedroom. My cock springs out heavy as soon as I lower the waistband of my briefs. I fist it and give it a tug.
Fuck, what are you doing to me, The Morrigan?
I close my eyes, fatigue and need fogging my brain. Briefly, I consider getting the lube from my nightstand, but I can’t be bothered. Spitting into my hand, I jerk off like I’m a teenager again.
Images of dark blue eyes—pleading, hiding, taunting, confronting—flash through my mind.
You know nothing about me.
You would love to win, wouldn’t you?
Because they saw me for the first time…
“Fuck,” I groan.
I practically smell the lavender. As I tug almost violently, my head covered with precum already, I swear I can even hear her gasp.
I lift my eyelids and… Fuck.
She is only a shadow in the opening of my door.
But she is there nevertheless. Watching me. A vision. So close, and so far at the same time. I open my mouth to tease her, but then I think better of it.
I didn’t think my cock can swell harder or my hand move faster, but the surge of need spreads through me.
I don’t want to spook her, because the only thing better than having her eyes on my cock while I chase my release would be to have her sit in my lap and chase it with me. At least in my mind.
The familiar tingling at the base of my spine makes me want to close my eyes, but I want to see her face when I come.
And fuck, I come. I grunt as white ropes paint my stomach. The orgasm crushes through me with such intensity, I almost black out.
My gaze collides with Saar’s. I don’t know if I searched for her eyes, or if she simply lifted her gaze, but she gasps and freezes for a brief moment before she runs away.
“Next time, feel free to join in, The Morrigan.”