Page 41 of I Almost Do

She doesn’t get it. Why would she? Marcus did everything in his power to keep her insulated from anything and everything he deemed unpleasant, let alone dangerous.

But the real world is a nasty place. It’s full of evil and violence. She needs to understand that—at least enough to not do stupid shit like ditch her security team.

“I wasn’t raised in your nice little world, princess. Ask me what I’d do if someone hurt you.”

She swallows. “What would you do?”

I hold her gaze, willing her to understand. “Absolutely anything. Remember that before you deliberately put yourself in harm’s way.”

She lifts her chin. “I want my name added to those security contracts. I want access to everything. Every report. Every plan. And I want them to know that I’m in charge of myself. I’m not passing over that control from my father to you.”

I nod slowly. “Good.”

She builds up more steam, and I’ll be damned if I don’t hear a lifetime of resentment in her next words. “If the guards try to act like babysitters, or if I find out they’re reporting my activities back to you like I’m a child they’re tending, I’m firing them. They follow my orders, not the other way around.”

I lean toward her and narrow my eyes, challenge in my voice. "You stand up for yourself any damn time you need to. If you don't, then I'm the one getting pissed."

"Does that count for standing up to you too?" she demands.

I pick my fork back up. "Sweet girl, it counts twice for me."

16

Fall Into Me

James

Four Months Later

Ihaven'tseenClarissaoutside FaceTime in two months.

She's gliding down the main staircase of our Brooklyn Heights brownstone, dressed for the Marcus Harcourt Charity Gala. And I'm struggling to keep my tongue in my mouth and my dick in my pants.

Her black evening gown clings all the way down until it flares into a little train near her knees. She has one elegant, freckled shoulder on display, and her body is a roadmap of dips and curves and slender lines. She's wearing her hair up, with constellations of gold and emeralds dangling from her ears.

I keep my expression stoic and my hands in my pockets when I want to launch myself up those steps and put my hands all over her.

I knew when I told her we needed to wait for her to be financially independent that keeping my hands to myself would be difficult. But I could never have fully understood the sheer level of self-control it would take to stick to my word.

It was one thing to tell myself—and her—those words when I barely knew her. When she represented a promise to her father and a vague fantasy for the future.

But I know this woman now. We may not see each other in person for months at a time, but we talk every single day. We text all day long, and sometimes all night long.

I know all her favorites: food, movies, books, and music. I know what makes her laugh, what makes her cry, and what makes her angry.

She's kind, stubborn, intelligent, independent, and hot as fuck. Clarissa Harcourt-Mellinger is so much more than the princess I thought I was marrying.

When I'd admitted to myself that I was halfway in love with her before the wedding, I had no idea how far there was to fall.

I haven't landed yet. I'm just in free fall every minute. Every day. I'm never going to hit the ground. She's going to be eighty years old, poking me with her cane, and I'll still be falling and fantasizing about grabbing her ass.

The way I went into this thinking I could marry her and somehow control that feeling? It was ludicrous.

The only thing I can control is my behavior. That, at least, is something I’ve managed with an iron will.

Despite our dubious beginnings and my own personal demons, this marriage is working. Our path just looks a little different from other people’s.

But holy fuck, I want to put these dirty hands of mine all over her.

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