You can’t do that when you fall in love with someone. It’s like taking back every breath you’ve taken for every year you’ve lived and loved.
Impossible.
Her skin is pale. She takes my hand. We leave Roman and walk past the ballroom. I don’t feel the need to tell anyone anything. My phone and wallet are in my pocket, and my Ferrari is with the valet.
Both of our bags are already packed and in the car.
I don’t say anything to her, just hand the valet my ticket. She shivers next to me. I take off my coat and wrap it around her shoulders, wishing my hands could linger against her skin. I pull back.
Within minutes my car roars up, and I’m helping her into her side. I look back at the hotel and see my own breath in front of my face. Great, I’m hyperventilating already.
I get into my side and buckle my seatbelt; hers is already done. She’s staring straight ahead, and it’s driving me crazy. I want her to say something. I need to say something, but quite honestly, I’m so angry over Roman taking her down a dark hallway an hour after we were married that I don’t have any kind poetic words to say, words that would make her like me, possibly love me, so I say what’s on my mind and immediately regret them the minute their out. “Seven days, just us, or I will kill you.”
She lets out a shocked breath.
I ignore it and slam my foot against the accelerator.
Chapter Twelve
“Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too, they live inside us, and sometimes, they win.” —Stephen King
Del
How could I possibly forget the man I married? The power he wields and the way he’s able to do it without as much as blinking an eyelash?
He’s the heir to an entire kingdom.
And not just one—but all of the Families. He has the final say. He’s the one who calls a commission. He calls all the shots. It’s not like I actually forgot; I just apparently needed reminding of what blood oath I took with the Families.
Seven days.
I tried for three.
For whatever reason, Tex said no. My uncle was in weird agreement, so seven seemed like a good compromise. It appeared normal for a honeymoon, it would look normal to everyone and be enough time away from all of the chaos of the Families before King really started stepping into his role, but now that I’m sitting in the car, I realize just how long seven days with this man will feel like.
We used to be close enough to call each other friends, and now it just feels like more distance grew the nearer the wedding got. I don’t know how to fix it, but I also don’t know what else to do.
I respect him, I do, but I feel like I’m cheating on Roman even though we’ve never even slept together. Maybe that’s it.
I’m scared of sex with King.
Or is it I’m scared to share space with him?
He has every right to be pissed at me. I told Roman twice that I shouldn’t leave the ballroom with him, that there was a reason he was my bodyguard, so it didn’t look like I was cheating on my husband—instead, I followed him because he seemed so sad and now I’m sitting in a car with a fuming King.
If his grip gets any tighter on the steering wheel, he’ll pull it completely from the dash. The thing is, rather than being terrified, it kind of turns me on, not that I would ever admit that to anyone. But I like that he’s jealous. It makes me wonder if there’s something there… if being married won’t be as bad as we both originally thought. Obviously, there’s attraction present on my side.
Is there attraction on his? Is that why he’s angry? Or is it just the fact that he found us and feels disrespected?
I’m generally not one to take crazy huge chances, but I decide to figure out on my own as I slide my hand until it touches his thigh.
He jumps, his foot slams against the accelerator so hard we both jolt backward, pushed into our seats.
After a curse, he says, “Sorry.”
“Same,” I say. “Thought I saw something on your pants.”
He doesn’t say anything, and I don’t move my hand because now it’s weird. So there I keep my left hand, on his thigh, dangerously close to his dick while he stares straight ahead.
The car slows at the next red light, then he slams on the brakes and honks the horn. I glance up in time to see a dark blur cross our path as someone runs the other light, and because of that one motion, my entire plan goes to hell.
My hand had slid toward his dick and is now literally touching through his pants something thick and hard, straining toward me.
I panic, fisting my hand around him.
And he just… grows.
Like so hard that I almost choke, then imagine sucking him off, and I nearly stop breathing. Because could I be any more of a whore right now?
I tell myself it’s okay because he’s my husband, right? It’s my job. Right? And it’s totally normal to be attracted to someone so flipping attractive.
I’m not blind.
Not to mention, I feel everything, and I do mean everything, right down to the heat of his cock against my palm.
When I look up, his throat moves like he just took a deep breath and needed to swallow. The light’s still red.
He closes his eyes briefly like he’s saying a prayer or maybe uttering a curse, then he reaches down and very gently pulls my hand from its position and rests it back on his thigh.
“Sorry,” I rasp.
“I’m not,” he says quickly, then turns to me, eyes narrowed to slits, expression unreadable. I can’t look away, and before I can say anything more, King, my husband, grabs the back of my neck and jerks me close. His mouth slams onto mine.
I gasp in surprise.
His tongue takes full advantage, shoving past my lips and into my mouth, demanding, pure… perfect.
A horn honks.
He pulls back, his eyes blazing now. His mouth twists into a smirk. “Still not sorry.”
I touch my swollen lips, hand shaking as I respond, “Same.”
Because I’m not.
I should be.
I’m not.
And that’s the problem.
He’s dangerous… to more than just my life or the life of my family—he’s dangerous to a heart that claims it’s already taken.
I keep it to myself.
I keep it all to myself.
Even as my heart skips a beat or two—even if for a few seconds, I forget about Roman and actually look forward to a night in King’s arms.
Chapter Thirteen
“Thou wast that all to me, love. For which my soul did pine.” —Edgar Allan Poe
King
The drive is long and torturous.
I can still feel her hand on my cock.
Taste her tongue in my mouth.
And feel the heat of her body pressed up against mine.
The drive is around two hours and forty minutes of pure hell. I know because I checked the dash every few minutes only to see that three minutes had gone by with fucking Shawn Mendez music playing in the background.
I’m still confused as to why I didn’t change the station to something that would make me angry instead of wanting to burst into tears about long-lost love and all that shit.
Eventually, Del tucks her legs under her and lays her head on her arm, falling asleep and putting me somewhat out of my misery—that is until she starts to snore.