Page 33 of Wicked God
The doors open into an entryway that’s all white marble and black lacquer, with bold modern art splashed across every sparesurface. I take a moment to breathe in the scent: leather, books, a hint of cedar, and the cologne I’d caught on his skin earlier.
Alex sheds his jacket and tosses it onto a midcentury credenza. His hand brushes against the small of my back as he guides me toward the living area.
“Can I get you something to drink?”
Part of me wishes for a strong drink to make this awkward encounter easier, but I know better than to get intoxicated in this man’s presence.
“Water,” I say, because it feels like the safest answer in a room where my brain is already threatening to short-circuit. He heads for the kitchen, sleeves rolled and forearms bared, muscles flexing in an infomercial-level display of casual masculinity. I stare at the skyline outside the window and count to five, trying to slow my heartbeat.
He returns, hands me a glass, and sits on the nearby arm of the couch. “We have a lot to cover,” he says, like we’re prepping for a board meeting, not plotting out the rest of our lives. “So. Where do we start?”
I set my water down, smooth my skirt, and force myself to meet his gaze. “First, we have to convince everyone that we’re actually in love. Not just our families—the entire city will be watching us. These people are obsessed with scandal.”
“Scandal, I can handle. That’s half of what Hawthornes do.” The sideways glance, the crooked smile—I’m reminded again of how dangerously attractive he is. “What about Tiffany?”
“She can’t know. Not yet. I have to find a way to break it to her gently.”
“And Dean?”
“Uncle Dean is going to be livid with me ruining his plans, but he wants your family’s reputation more than he wants my obedience, so he’ll act like everything is going according to plan.We have to make everyone else believe that we’re in love. How about your father?”
Alex knits his fingers together. “My father will barely need convincing. He’s been orchestrating my love life since I got my first credit card. He’ll be pleased, as long as the headlines are clean, the wedding tasteful, and the vows ironclad.”
“So, performative devotion,” I say, lips quirking.
A little at ease now, we bang out the parameters. We’ll need to be seen in public—dinners, mixers, charity galas. PDA, but not gross. Enough for social media to drool over our ‘chemistry.’ No slip-ups, no trash talk, no cold feet, not even in private, because in this world ‘private’ is just a synonym for ‘not-yet-public.’
“Cassandra will help us with paparazzi and events. I’ll talk to her tomorrow. I know this is a lot of work, but it’s just for one year. After that, we can taper off, set the stage for a respectable break, say it was mutual and amicable. If that’s what you want.”
“Twelve months,” Alex muses. “That’s how long you want us to be married?”
“I can’t ask you to lose even more time in this arrangement. A year should be enough for me to negotiate with Dean and convince him to drop the idea of arranged marriages for Tiffany.”
Or to plan an escape with Tiffany if Dean doesn’t agree.
Alex’s gaze is intense, searching. “And then what? We shake hands and walk away?”
“That’s the plan,” I say, ignoring the tightness in my throat. “You and I get divorced, and we both move on with our lives.”
“Well, Olivia,” his voice lightens, “there are worse ways to spend a year than with a friend.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Is that what we are, Alex?Friends?”
The playful glint in his eyes dims. I watch as a myriad of emotions flicker across his face—confusion, desire, conflict- before he leans in, closing the distance between us.
Alex’s hand cups my cheek. The touch is feather-light, tentative, as if he is afraid I might shatter under his fingertips. I gasp.
In one fluid motion, Alex’s lips crash into mine. The kiss is savage, filthy. His tongue is inside my mouth before I even remember how to breathe. My body burns, and every ounce of reason flees. Heat radiates down my neck, along my arms, pooling in my core. He tastes like champagne and secrets. I kiss him back, hungry and starved at once, until we’re both gasping against each other’s mouths.
Then I straddle his lap and wrap my hands around his neck. Alex’s hands splay across my hips, rough and possessive, thumbs tracing the curve of my waist. The friction between us is exquisite—a near-painful ache I’ve denied for too long.
I can feel how hard he is, his erection pressing against his thigh. It’s almost embarrassing how badly my body responds, how I grind down on him with a needy shudder, sparks skipping up my spine.
“Olivia,” he groans, breath ragged as he shoves my skirt up around my waist, exposing my red lacy underwear. “Jesus, how are you real. I’ve been craving the taste of you for days.”
I blush but can’t resist pulling him into another kiss. “Is this your definition of friendship?”
This time, his mouth is more aggressive, his tongue plunging deep into mine.
