Page 47 of Pretty Little Threats

“There’s no love between us,” I murmur, pinching my eyes closed as our bodies finally press together.

His cock throbs against my stomach, and he grinds it into me, letting me know exactly what my little game did to him. “Scared, princess?” he asks, lips tracing over mine.

Forcing myself to meet his gaze, I ignore the way my body warms in response to his touch, the way I want to melt into him, the way I want to smash my lips against his, and lie my ass off. “Of you?” I let out one, throaty laugh. “No, Dare. You don’t scare me.”

Those strong, tattooed hands slide down to grip my ass, pressing my core into his. I bite back a moan.

“You’re a liar, Rosalynn Miller,” he murmurs, rocking my body over his hardened length again before releasing me so abruptly I almost fall.

Refusing to let him get the better of me, I straighten and toss him a haughty look. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

Dare’s T-shirt and pants are probably a hundred dollarsapiece, at least, but if this prick thinks he can get married in jeans... “I’ll change,” he says, reaching one hand over his opposite shoulder and tugging the T-shirt off in a simple move that has no right to be as sexy as it is.

Lust is fucking with my head.

I scowl at him. “I’ll give you privacy.”

“You can stay.” He reaches for the button of his pants.

“No thanks.” I scurry from the room, Dare’s laugh chasing after me.

Part of me is dying to know what his cock looks like, but the other half is terrified that Dare has the power to make me want him. I slam the door closed and press my back into the wall, inhaling. Every confrontation with Dare leaves me breathless. I don’t hate it.

There are little pinpricks of pain on the bottom of my feet from the cuts the glass left, but after years of wearing high heels for hours on end, the hurt is manageable. The wounds themselves have scabbed over, and in a few days, they’ll be healed. I glance down at my arm, scowling at the marks on my skin.

Dare opens the door and catches me staring at the bruises. His eyes drop to my biceps. Something violent streaks across his features, but it’s there and gone in an instant. I half wonder if I imagined it.

He’s changed into an Anderson & Sheppard tuxedo, and instead of a white button-up shirt, his is black, matching the color of the suit. The sweeps of ink covering his hands are the only indication that he’s tattooed. Those brown eyes narrow when I lift my gaze to his face. Even in a three-thousand-dollar tux, he looks deadly.

And, for some reason, that thought doesn’t unsettle me as much as it should.

“Well?” he asks. “Is this better for you, princess?”

“I guess it’s the best you can do,” I say with a sigh.

His lips twitching, he slips back into the room, returning with the white veil clutched in his hand. Dare proffers the other. “Ready?”

I swallow the lump that’s formed in my throat, heart slamming against my rib cage, and slip my hand into his. The calluses on his palm surprise me. I don’t know what I expected. There’s nothing soft about him.

Dare leads me down the stairs, mindful not to go too fast with me in my heels.

I frown.

Another little act of kindness. Or maybe it’s the manners his parents likely beat into his head before they passed. Were his parents as tough-loving as my dad?

Dare steps onto the landing and turns slightly, glancing up at me as I take the final step down. Those brown irises are so hard to read, but I swear something like regret glitters in them.

I lift an eyebrow in question.

Shaking himself, he sighs and pulls me toward the table in the foyer. A stack of papers with pens laid on top waits for us. “First things first,” Dare says, releasing my hand.

I wipe my palm on my dress, and he tracks the motion with a frown. “A prenup?” I guess.

“What’s love without contracts?” he muses.

“My lawyer needs to look this over,” I tell him.

He shakes his head and holds a pen out for me to take. “No time. Sign it.”

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