Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
Alejandro
Ipour myself a generous measure of Scotch and down it in one before walking to the window of my hotel suite. I have a perfectly functional house in Bel Air, but I rarely spend any time there. I prefer being here over my quiet house that has too many rooms and not enough people to fill them.
I own this hotel. I work here. I fuck women here, and plenty of them.
After my run-in with Alana, I was filled with the kind of pent-up rage-fueled desire that I usually slake with meaningless sex.
I had no intentions of going home after my meeting, but I was pulled there by an inexplicable need to check on her and make sure she was okay given our hasty wedding and my even hastier departure.
Maybe it was because I couldn’t stop picturing her ass in that dress for the duration of the afternoon.
Couldn’t stop remembering the way her dark brown eyes shone beneath her lashes or hearing her voice when she spoke our vows.
The plump bow of her lips as she spoke each word with clarity and confidence, along with a touch of sadness.
Her father is a monster for selling her to a man like me, but she wanted this life.
She craved the money and prestige that would come from marrying a man like me.
When I found her lying in a bed that was not mine, wearing a nightdress that barely covered her thighs, I found myself wanting nothing more than to carry her to my bed and consummate this sham of a marriage.
Thankfully, my sanity was restored when she opened her mouth and reminded me that our marriage isn’t real.
Like her father, Alana Carmichael cannot be trusted.
But now I’m left with a dangerous kind of rage simmering in my veins and no way to sate it.
I considered going to the hotel bar and striking up a conversation with one of the many women who frequent the place.
It would have taken less than half an hour to get one of them up here to my suite, which is how I like it.
I prefer not to waste time on small talk or the art of seduction.
Most of the time, much like tonight, all I want is to fuck someone. Hard.
Uncomplicated, no-strings fucking is my favorite way to unwind, and the women I do it with understand the rules of the game.
But this is my wedding night. I’m supposed to be at home seeing to my new bride rather than trawling my bar looking for a hookup, and I have to make the marriage seem at least halfway believable.
My cell vibrates with a text notification, and I open it.
Jax: I’ve sent you a wedding gift, amigo. Enjoy!
I frown at the screen, wondering what he means by that. As my second-in-command and my most trusted soldier, he’s one of the few people who knows that my marriage to Alana Carmichael is nothing more than a business arrangement.
Before I can text him back, someone knocks on the door to my suite. I open it and find my gift right there waiting.
Tall, blond, long legs, big tits, and the tiniest dress I’ve ever seen. My best buddy knows me far too well.
And I really shouldn’t, but … Fuck, if my wife doesn’t want me anywhere near her tonight, then …
“Come in,” I say, holding the door open.
She struts into the room in her high heels. “Mr. Decker thought you might be lonely up here on your own,” she purrs seductively. “So he’s sent me to take care of you.”
“How thoughtful of him.” I close the door behind her. “And you are?”
She pulls her lips into a pout and flutters her eyelashes. “Princess.”
“Princess?” I can’t help but laugh at the irony. If a spoiled New York princess isn’t on the menu tonight, maybe a different type of princess will hit the spot.
A glass of Scotch in hand, I take a seat in the armchair and watch Princess slip off her skimpy dress and stand before me wearing only a pink G-string.
She has a decent body, tall and thin, but her huge tits are obviously fake. I prefer the real deal, but I won’t object. She’s fuckable enough, and that’s all that matters to me.
“What can I do for you tonight, Mr. Montoya?” she says, walking closer.
“Take off the panties and come here.”
She obeys immediately. That’s the thing I appreciate about women like this. They do exactly as they’re told, when they’re told to do it. There are no expectations. No complaints.
Princess slips her G-string over her hips and down her long legs until it lies in a tiny pool at her feet. She moves to stand directly in front of me, so close that I can smell her pussy, yet it doesn’t illicit the usual response from my cock.
Perhaps he needs a little more incentive. “Turn around and bend over so I can see what my buddy sent me.”
She obeys, bending over so her waxed pussy is only inches from my face. “Do you like what you see, Mr. Montoya?” she asks in a low, husky voice.
I ignore her question because I’m not in the habit of giving compliments. “It looks like you’re already dripping wet for me, Princess. Do you enjoy being paid to let men fuck you?”
She giggles. “I enjoy being paid to let you fuck me, sir. In fact, I’d let you do me for free.”
I palm my cock and squeeze it through my suit pants, but it remains stubbornly semihard, which is infuriating as hell. I have a naked woman bending over in front of me with her pussy in my face and I can’t get hard. This has never happened to me before.
“What are you waiting for? From what I’ve heard, you’re not usually so shy.”
What am I waiting for? Why am I only looking at her instead of taking advantage of her body? Doing anything that will make me hard enough to fuck her?
I sigh and down my Scotch. “Get dressed.”
She stands and turns around. “Get dressed? Have I done something wrong, Mr. Montoya?” she asks, her voice trembling.
“No,” I bark. “I’m not in the mood.” I am very much in the mood. Just not for her.
“Well, I could help with that,” she offers. “I don’t mind—whatever you want to do.”
What the fuck is wrong with me? My cock should be painfully hard right now, but even if it were, I still wouldn’t be able to bring myself to touch her.
“Just get dressed and go.”
She lets out a huff of indignation, quickly gathers her clothes from the floor, and gets dressed. A few seconds later, she’s gone.
I sit back in my chair and sigh. Here I am on my wedding night, sitting alone in a hotel room while my wife is on the other side of the city. Not that I care about that fact, at least I try to convince myself of that.
Because I don’t particularly like Alana Carmichael. She’s fuckable too, very fuckable actually. With her long, curly hair, thick thighs, and curvy ass, but she’s too much work. Not to mention she’s a spoiled daddy’s girl who I suspect would fuck me over to save his skin given half a chance.
So, why is she all I can think about? Why couldn’t I put her out of my mind and fuck Princess—a woman who would know exactly what I want and how I want it? Who might make some of the rage blistering my skin go away.
Despite Alana being my wife in name alone, I can’t bring myself to cheat on her for some inexplicable reason.
I don’t know what the fuck it means, and I have no idea if I will always feel like this.
Maybe it’s a remnant from my childhood, from listening to Mamá and the priest she invited for tea every Saturday harp on about the holy sanctity of marriage.
I throw my empty glass at the wall and watch it shatter into pieces, but it does nothing to quell my ire.
Damn my catholic upbringing.
And fuck Alana Carmichael.