Arranged(60)

“I’m not sure I like it,” he said gruffly.

“Me neither,” I lied. I did like it. I loved it. I couldn’t remember ever feeling quite so much, and it was hands down the most addictive thing I’d ever encountered.

After that he couldn’t even look at me. Like even the sight of me weakened him. Overwhelmed him.

It was almost like he was . . . No. It was too silly to think.

This too much for me, larger than life, gorgeous man could not be scared of me.

So what could he be afraid of?

That if he spent too much time with me, he’d catch feelings?

I knew I was projecting, that the thought only crossed my mind because that was the exact thing scaring me.

The exact thing happening to me.

I wanted my husband to do more than want me. I wanted him to care. The idea shocked me. Was there actually some spark of a romantic left in my cynical young heart? The thought was terrifying. I’d gone too far for any of that.

He was getting dressed, his back to me.

“Okay fine,” he finally spoke, his tone begrudging. “Let’s negotiate. What do I need to do to keep you from pulling any more shit like that?”

I knew just the thing. “Your phone number.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Deal. Give me your phone.” He reached back without glancing at me. I found it and handed it to him. He fiddled with it for a minute. Without looking up he said, “This is my last warning: If I see your lips touch anyone else’s ever again, I won’t hold back on the guy, and you get to explain to my father why I got arrested.”

He handed my phone back to me and left without another word.

It was only later that I checked his contact info on my phone.

He’d saved himself as Banks/My Master. Cheeky bastard.





CHAPTER

TWENTY-SIX





BANKS


I was taking my wife out on a date per direct orders from my father.

I was reluctant, to say the least. I hadn’t seen her in eight days. In fact, I’d been actively avoiding her. I hadn’t even been allowing myself to look at/stalk her social media.

I’d failed in that multiple times, but I was going four days strong. Out of sight, out of mind. I repeated the mantra.

And still thoughts of her persisted. The feel of her lips. The way her eyes rolled up in her head as she came. Her looking like an irresistibly wrapped confection as she strutted in barely anything down the runway. The sight of her kissing that annoying fucking model.

Why had she asked for my number but never used it? I spent way too much time puzzling over that. Whatever game she was playing, I couldn’t figure it out. She was as good at mind-fucks as she’d turned out to be at literal fucks.

Thoughts of her bombarded me in a torrent if I didn’t keep them carefully locked away. It was an effort.

Even with all those little defeats, though, the fact remained that I had stayed away from her for eight long days. It was a victory, and I resented my dad for ruining it. Hadn’t he already done enough?

I was pissed off and bitter right up until the moment I saw her. Then every thought went out of my head. Or maybe they switched heads. Whatever it was, I stopped thinking about my dad completely and let something else entirely take its place. Enchantment of her.

Let was the wrong word. It happened against my will. To be precise, I had no will once I saw her.

I’d refused to pick her up, insisting that she meet me at the restaurant. We’d been ordered on a date, but no one had specified how long the date had to be.

With that in mind, I’d walked in the door planning to bolt after taking exactly two bites of the main course, but my first sight of her undid all of those plans, because I quite simply forgot about them.

The fact was that I wanted to spurn her, but I wanted to fuck her more. And the imbalance of those two urges only grew more pronounced with every contact.

I took her in as she made her way through the crowded restaurant. The tables were awkwardly close together, and she had to navigate between them by twisting and turning her perfect, decadent body to maneuver through. Ah, New York. Everywhere worth being was packed to the gills.

There wasn’t one eye in the room that stayed off her. Men stared, of course, but even the women couldn’t stop looking at her. I didn’t blame any of them. If her stunning looks weren’t enough, her flawless face had recently been plastered all over Times Square for some makeup ad.

She was wearing white with miles of her tanned legs showing and her bodice dipped down into a low V that exposed the delectable skin between her perky tits. When she drew closer my eyes ran down her legs, and I noticed the nude stilettos with red heels that peeked out as she walked.

She could keep those on when I fucked her up against the nearest wall.

I tried to shake off the visual but was only partially successful. My eyes traveled back up her body. I studied her ensemble, trying to figure out how it came off.

“What are you wearing?” were the first words out of my mouth.

I’d caught her off guard. She paused and glanced down at herself. “Are you asking about the designer? I think it’s . . . Hmm . . . Halston maybe? I’m not entirely sure.”

“I don’t care about the designer. What I’m asking is, is it all one piece? What the hell? What is this torture device?”