Page 133 of The Billionaire's Fake Wife
He cups my cheek, "Go on, let me assess the damage I inflicted."
"It’s nothing… really—"
"Let me be the judge of that, hmm?"
I twist my fingers in front of me, scan the space.
"No cameras."
"Yeah, that’s what you said last time."
"You weren’t my wife then."
I stiffen. Does he mean what I think he means? Can his alphaholiciousness actually acknowledge that the ceremony yesterday meant something to him? I grab a strand of my hair and bring it to my mouth, chew on it. He reaches out and gently tugs on the strand until I release it.
"I promise I won’t take advantage." He holds up his hand, "Besides, it’s nothing I haven’t seen."
Thanks for reminding me about exactly how you reduced me to a melting blob of jelly. I bite the inside of my cheek, glower at him.
He merely smiles. He seems almost harmless… Almost. Yeah, and I am the Queen of England. I snort, pivot to face the table.
He presses his big palm into the small of my back and I shiver.
He applies pressure. I follow his lead.
I bend over the polished surface of his antique executive desk.
