Ruthless Rival (Cruel Castaways #1)(103)

I press a soft, chaste kiss to her center, grinning.

She groans, pushing my head harder to her sex. “You’re impossible.”

But then my tongue invades her, pries her open, and she clenches around it. I hold her waist tightly, pleasuring her, and she is close, so close that when she comes apart, I can feel every muscle in her body yielding to the sensation.

I stand up, unbuckle myself, and press home.

Arya holds me tight, moaning. “Christian.” My name is whispered breathlessly, kisses landing on my cheeks, my throat, my lips. “Christian. I love you so much.”

The next thing I do very carefully. I lace my fingers through hers again, like in the movie. But unlike the movie, I add my own touch. A French-set halo engagement ring with a two-carat diamond on it. I slip it on her finger as I start to move inside her, and in her daze of passion, Arya doesn’t notice. I make love to her, and she falls apart again. This time, I do too. I come deep inside her. When we both raise our heads and catch our breaths, she finally notices.

Her face changes, her expression morphing from drunk with pleasure to alert.

“Oh . . .” She straightens her fingers, stretching her arm and moving her hand here and there, letting the diamond catch the light streaming from the floor-to-ceiling window. “Is this . . . ?”

“It is,” I confirm.

“We’ve only been together for six months.” She turns to grin at me, and I have to say, for a woman who is naked from the waist down, she sure knows how to be a smarty-pants.

“Correct,” I say dryly, tucking myself in, “and that’s about five months too late. My bad. In my defense, I had a business to open.”

She shakes her head, laughing. Then she launches herself at me in a hug, peppering my face with kisses. I catch her waist, smirking.

“Is that a yes?”

“I don’t know,” she murmurs to the light stubble along my jaw. “What would Cecilia say?”

“Hell yeah.”



ARYA

“I still don’t understand what this is for,” I sigh, sitting completely blindfolded in the passenger seat of my mother’s sedan. It’s not exactly the Bentley she was parading around Manhattan, complete with a personal driver, prior to her divorce, but she seems oddly content with the downgrade. She ditched the expensive blowouts and designer clothes for off-shoulder flowery maxi dresses and trendy sneakers.

She even has a new boyfriend, Max, who is not only super dashing but also a geeky high school geography teacher who treats her like a goddess and has vowed to take her to try every curry in New York City. They’re on their twentieth curry joint, last I checked.

“No one asked you to understand, darling. Just not to peek.” Mom pats my thigh, chuckling as moms do.

“We’ve been driving for forever. Are we even still in Manhattan?” I’m trying to get a ballpark estimation of what I’m working with. About thirty minutes ago, she picked me up from work and told me she had a surprise to show me. It didn’t faze her in the least when I told her I wanted to go bridesmaid dress shopping with Jilly. She dragged me into her car and ignored my plans.

Beatrice tsks. “Sorry. I’m under strict instructions not to give you any hints.”

“Instructions from who?” I demand.

She laughs at that.

“Christian?” I try. The fabric of the blindfold itches my nose, and I twitch it back and forth.

“Darling, not everything must revolve around your hunky fiancé.”

I rumble a weak response and sit back, folding my arms together. Mom talks my ear off about applying to a bunch of jobs around the Brooklyn area, now that she’s moved in with Max. How she knows it’s silly, but she wants to go back to school and maybe become a teacher. I tell her it’s not silly at all. How bettering our life, our circumstances, broadening our knowledge, should never be a source of shame. Before I know it, I feel my body sway as she pulls to the curb. We must’ve arrived at her secret destination.

“Keep the blindfold on while I make a call.” She uses her brand-new Mom tone. The one that warns me not to mess with her. I secretly love this tone. It makes up for all the years I didn’t have a mother. Her voice is sweet but businesslike as she talks to the person on the other end.

“Yes.” Pause. “She’s here.” Another beat. “No, not a thing. I kept her in the dark. Literally. But I’m double-parked, so you better come out here.”

A minute later, the passenger door opens, and I feel a pair of hands pulling me out gently. I don’t need to ask who it is. I know. The calluses of his fingers. The roughness of his big palms. It’s my future husband.

“Thanks, Bea, I’ll take good care of her,” Christian says.

“Bye, now,” Mom chirps, gunning her engine as she drives away.

“This better be good, Mr. Miller,” I warn as he ushers me somewhere, holding my hands. I trust him fully, but I don’t like not being in the know.

Christian chuckles but doesn’t answer. We make our way indoors out of the heat of the summer day through a revolving door. An avalanche of cool, air-conditioned air sweeps over my feet and hair. It gives me a sweet, achy feeling. Like I’ve felt it once before. My heels click over marble. My surroundings smell new. Flowery. Expensive. We’re in a building. Christian calls the elevator, and I wait beside him.