Chapter 6
LENNOX
I wake to warmth. Not the kind of warmth that comes from blankets or the sunshine streaming through windows. This is body heat. The solid presence of another person in the bed beside me.
My eyes fly open.
Sebastian is lying next to me, on his side, propped up on one elbow, watching me sleep.
His dark hair is slightly mussed, falling across his forehead in a way that would be boyish if not for the predatory intensity in his eyes.
The sheet sits low on his hips, exposing his bare chest, and in the gray morning light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I can see every detail I was too overwhelmed to notice last night.
He is heavily muscled, not a lean, runner’s build, but the thick, powerful frame of someone who works hard.
Broad shoulders that taper to a narrow waist, arms that look like they could snap me in half.
His chest is covered in dark hair, across his pecs, trailing down his abs, disappearing beneath the sheet.
But it’s the ink that makes me stare.
Tattoos cover his right arm completely, a sleeve of black-and-gray artwork that starts at his shoulder and ends just above his wrist. In the morning light, I can make out the imagery: barbed wire wrapped around his bicep like it’s binding him, a longhorn skull with a crown of thorns at his shoulder, wildflowers—bluebonnets, I think—twisted with more barbed wire down his forearm.
His left arm has less coverage but still bears a significant piece on his inner forearm, with coordinates and numbers that probably mean something to him.
His chest holds ink, too. Over his heart, partially hidden by the hair, I can see the edges of what looks like a cattle brand.
It’s a rocking D, and it reminds me of the brand my father uses.
A heaviness settles over me. And there, just above his right hip, where the sheet lies dangerously low, is the beginning of something larger that disappears beneath the fabric.
The contrast is jarring. This man, who wears tailored suits and runs a luxury resort empire, who moves in circles with politicians and celebrities, looks like he should be running a motorcycle club or doing time.
Then there are the scars. A long, pale line across his left ribs that looks surgical. Smaller ones on his knuckles, fighting, probably. Another on his collarbone that might be from barbed wire or a knife, hard to tell.
He is beautiful and terrifying in equal measure.
And now he is watching me catalog every inch of him with dark amusement in his eyes.
I jerk away instinctively, my body protesting the sudden movement. I can feel the deep soreness between my thighs, aching muscles, the sting of skin that was gripped, bitten, marked. Everything from last night comes rushing back in vivid, humiliating, insanely sexy detail.
His mouth on me. His hands pinning me down forcefully but gentle at the same time. His tattooed arms caging me against the window. I screamed his name and told him I’m his. God, I hate him, but every cell in my body aches to have him claim me again.
“Good morning, wife,” Sebastian says, his voice rough with sleep but amused. His eyes, dark brown, almost black in this light, track over me slowly, possessively, like he’s cataloging every inch of exposed skin the same way I just did him.
I grab the sheet and pull it up to cover myself, suddenly aware I’m completely naked.
“Don’t cover up on my account.” He reaches out and tugs the sheet back down, exposing my breasts. His long fingers, scarred knuckles, short nails, trail across my collarbone, down between my breasts, casual and proprietary. “I’ve already seen everything. I’ve tasted everything. Owned everything.”
I slap his hand away and sit up. The sheet falls to my waist, but I don’t care any more. Modesty suddenly seems pointless after what we did in this room last night, or this morning, I lost track of time.
“When did you come to bed?” My voice comes out raw. I screamed too much. After round two, he got up, but I was too tired to care what time he returned.
“Around four.” He stretches lazily, the movement making his muscles shift beneath tattooed skin.
The sheet slips lower, revealing the cut of his hip bones, more dark hair, the continuation of whatever design covers his hip.
“You were dead asleep. I almost woke you up for another round, but I figured you’d earned a few hours of rest.”
I look past him to the windows framing the Pacific Ocean in the early morning light. Gray sky meeting gray water, waves crashing against rocks I can’t see but can hear as a constant, rhythmic thunder. The modern, minimalist clock on the nightstand reads 7:03 a.m.
Ten o’clock looms in my mind. It’s when we are meeting Margaret for my examination.
The thought hits me like a bucket of cold water. Margaret’s clinical voice in that leather chair study: You must consummate the wedding tonight. I meet with all the couples tomorrow morning and make sure the night happened.
And Sebastian’s eerily calm response: You’re marked. Margaret will check.
My hands move to my neck automatically, fingers finding the raised skin where he bit me hard enough to break the surface.
Then to my hips, pressing gently and wincing at the tender spots his fingers left, bruises, definitely bruises, probably in the perfect shape of his grip.
My wrists are ringed with red marks from where he pinned them above my head.
Evidence. All of it is evidence that he fucked me, claimed me, consummated our marriage per the contract terms.
And in less than three hours, I have to let some random doctor examine me to verify it.
“I need to shower,” I say, my voice coming out rougher than I intended.
“You showered last night.” Sebastian’s hand finds my bare thigh under what remains of the sheet.
His palm is hot against my skin. Callused.
I didn’t expect that, didn’t notice it last night.
I thought men like him had soft hands from pushing papers and signing checks.
But his palm is rough, scarred, the hand of someone who’s done real work not that long ago.
“For almost an hour. I could hear the water running.”
I’d scrubbed myself clean, standing under scalding water until my skin turned lobster red, trying to wash away the feel of his hands, his mouth, his cock.
Trying to erase the memory of how much I’d wanted him, how I’d come for him so many times I lost count, how I’d told him I’m his because he demanded it.
But it wasn’t a stretch, because that man is going to be my undoing, with his amazing body, talented tongue and fucking magic cock.
“I need another one.” I move to get out of bed, swinging my legs over the side, but his hand tightens on my thigh, holding me in place.
“Not yet.” He pulls me back down with unsurprising strength, and before I can protest, he is on top of me, his weight pinning me to the mattress.
All that heavily muscled bulk crushing me into expensive sheets that smell like sex and him.
His morning erection, hard and insistent, presses against my hip through the thin barrier of the sheet.
“We have three hours before we need to leave. That’s plenty of time. ”
“No.” I shove at his chest. I can’t do this again. Not yet. “Sebastian.”
“Relax.” He catches my wrists easily, holding them above my head with one hand.
Those long fingers wrap around both my wrists, the barbed wire ink seeming to extend from his skin onto mine.
“I won’t fuck you, not right now, anyway.
Your pussy needs time to recover.” His free hand slides down my body, possessive and slow, calloused palm scraping against my skin.
“But there are other ways to remind you who you belong to.”
“I don’t really think it’s possible to forget.”
He kisses me, hard and demanding, swallowing my protest. His tongue slides into my mouth open, tasting me thoroughly. His chest hair scrapes against my breasts as he presses closer, and immediately I know I want more of him.
His hand, that rough, scarred hand, finds the apex of my thighs. He nudges them apart with his knee, settling more heavily between them, the full weight of his muscled frame keeping me pinned and spread.
“Still swollen,” he murmurs against my lips, his fingers exploring gently now, almost clinical, and I gasp at his touch. Testing. Assessing. “Good. You’ll feel me all day.”
He pulls back and looks down at me, his dark eyes full of satisfaction. “But you’re right. We should save your energy for later. I want you again after we meet with Margaret.”
He releases my wrists and rolls off me in one fluid movement, standing beside the bed in all his naked, tattooed, heavily muscled, amazing glory.
Holy fuck, Lennox, quit looking at the man.
I know you want to climb him like a tree, but remember he’s an asshole.
My brain screams at me, but God, I want to ignore it.
“Get dressed,” he says, walking toward what I assume is a closet, his ass flexing with every step. Even his back has ink, something across his shoulder blades I can’t make out at this angle. “I got clothes delivered for you. They’re in the living room.” Then he disappears through a doorway.
I force myself to sit up, ignoring the protest from every muscle I possess. My feet find the floor. I look around for something to wear, but the silk robe from last night is still crumpled on the living room floor where Sebastian stripped it off me.
I wrap the sheet around myself like a toga and stand.
The bedroom is massive now that I can actually see it in daylight.
More floor-to-ceiling windows, more expensive art, a sitting area with leather chairs I didn’t notice last night.
The bed itself is a California king, probably custom-made, with posts but no canopy.
Black satin sheets that probably cost a fortune and are now stained with evidence of what we did together.
I move toward the living room. The sheet trails behind me, and I stop dead in the doorway.
The living room, the huge space with its ocean views and expensive furniture, has been transformed into a clothing boutique.
Racks of clothing line one entire wall. Dresses, pants, blouses, skirts, all look to be my size, somehow.
Shoes arranged beneath: heels, flats, boots.
A separate rack holds lingerie and a table displays folded jeans, T-shirts and workout clothes.
It is a store’s worth of clothing. Thousands of dollars of designer labels and luxury brands.
I stand there, clutching the sheet around me, staring at the evidence of how he seems to think of everything. He had all of this delivered while I was asleep.
“It’s all yours.”
His voice comes from behind me. I didn’t hear him approach, and I almost jump out of my skin.
He moves his hand around my waist, then with a quick tug, he pulls me back against his chest. He’s half dressed in expensive tailored pants, sitting low on his hips, but remains shirtless.
I feel his warmth against my bare shoulders where the sheet slides down.
“I had my personal shopper pull everything in your size,” he continues, his breath hot against my ear. His hands press me to him, possessive, claiming me even through the fabric. “You’re a Drake now. You’ll dress like one.”
His hands find my hips through the sheet, fingers pressing into the bruises he left there.
“Did you sleep well?” he asks, and I can hear the dark amusement in his voice.
“I don’t think I had a choice; you exhausted me.”
“Mmm.” His lips find my neck, and he kisses the bite mark. “Your stamina will improve, once your body gets used to my desires.”
“I’ll never get used to you or your desires.”
“We’ll see.” One hand slides down my stomach, lower, finding me through the sheet. “You didn’t mind coming for me.”
I consider pulling away, but his other arm has banded across my chest, holding me in place against him. His fingers press between my legs through the fabric, finding wetness that I couldn’t control if I tried.
“Still wet?” he questions. “Or wet again from me touching you? You seem to what you want, Lennox. These two years promise to be interesting.”
“Stop,” I huff, but did I mean it?
“We need to get ready for Margaret.” Sebastian doesn’t stop; his fingers work me through the sheet.
He moves his other hand up to cup my breast, thumb finding my nipple.
“She’ll want to see all the marks I left.
The bite on your neck. The bruises on your hips.
Maybe I should add a few more before we go. ”
“Sebastian.”
He spins me around suddenly, and the sheet falls away, leaving me naked in his arms. His hands grip my ass, lifting me, and my legs wrap around his waist before I know what they’re doing. He walks us backward until my back hits the wall beside the clothing racks, pinning me there.
“I want to hear it again,” he demands, his face inches from mine. “Say you’re mine.”
“Go to hell.”
He grinds his hips against me, his erection pressing against my pussy through his pants. I gasp at the pressure, the promise.
“Say it, or I’ll fuck you right here against this wall and make you scream it.”
My core clenches with need, and he feels it, his smile dark and satisfied.
“I’m yours,” I whisper.
“Louder.”
“I’m yours.” Stronger this time, and I meet his eyes with all the hate I can muster.
“That’s my girl.” He kisses me hard, then sets me down carefully. “Now get dressed. We leave in two hours. Wear something that makes you look like the respectable woman you are.”
He walks away, leaving me naked and shaking against the wall, surrounded by thousands of dollars’ worth of clothes that are supposed to make me into his perfect wife.
I look down at my body—marked, bruised, and possessed—and something inside me softens slightly as I think about this situation.
Sebastian Drake bought me. Fucked me. Marked me. But I can’t find the anger I had for him last night. We had rough sex, he was demanding and a bit of an ass, but he wasn’t unkind. My pleasure was his priority. It wasn’t how I’d always imagined getting married but was it really that bad?
I’ll make this time the best I can, and then leave with a million dollars.
I push off the wall and walk to the clothing racks. I have two hours to make myself look like the perfect Mrs. Drake. One day down. Seven hundred and twenty-nine to go.