Page 19 of Princess of Pride
I gape. He can’t be serious. I glance at Lachlan, who manages to appear bored whenever he looks at me. His aqua eyes hold mine and his long dark lashes blink, and blink, and blink to a slow, steady beat.
“Do you want me to ask you if I can be excused?” I say like it’s absurd—because it is.
“It would be appreciated.” Something flits in his eyes. A test? A smirk? Both? He’s so damn hardto read.
If that’s how he wants to play, I’m game. Let’s see how uncomfortable I can make the man who detests me sexually.
I face him and bend from the waist, letting my too-big breasts spill from the top of my dress directly in his face before moving my mouth to his ear. My long strands fall over his suit jacket and brush his cheek. I take a moment to let my breath caress his ear before asking in a sickeningly sweet voice, “Lachlan, dear. I would give myself the greatest pleasure, if you would allow me to retire for the night?”
The wordplay is intentional. On any other man, insinuating I’m going to masturbate would drive him wild. On Lachlan, at most, he'll get annoyed that I dared to flirt with him. Our agreement states that we show public displays of affection. Legally, he asked for this.
He turns his head and inhales my scent almost as if he’s enjoying it. Moments pass yet he hasn’t responded. Again, I count the seconds. One Dior bag, two Dior bags, three Dior bags, four?—
To my shock, he trails his fingers from my bare shoulder to the inner crease of my elbow, sending electric shivers across my skin in a way that surprises me.
“You may.”
I straighten, but he catches my wrist in a firm grip before I can walk off.
“Meet me at the pool house in ten. There’s something we need to discuss.” He releases me, and I’m shocked I don’t stumble.
My heavier breathing is making me lightheaded. I don’t like orders or being controlled. But whatever Lachlan just did to me, which wasn’t much, turned me on. Both times a charge went from his touch to my core like a lightning strike.
This is not good. Not good at all.
Careful not to stumble, I leave the room pretending I’mtotally fine. I’m the opposite of fine. As soon as I’m far enough down the hallway where they can’t see me, I stop to lean against the wall and catch my breath.
Icannotfind my husband attractive. I already do, but I understand I’m not his type. If I start pining for him, this entire situation will go south faster than the birds in fall.
How am I supposed to join him on his business trip now—assuming he agrees with my plan? I need to regroup and find a book boyfriend to focus on instead of Lachlan. Even now, I’m imagining his hand doing that sparking-tingle all over my body, even on my breasts. I never picture that!
The bra stays on. Even with Gabe it did—not that we made out much. Just once, when we managed to sneak in a little action without my dad’s minions barging in. After about fifteen minutes, my paranoia took over, and I told him we had to stop. Other than that, I’ve only kissed random guys at clubs or parties.
I veer for the bar in the living room. It has something I could use to take the edge off before facing my sexy husband in person. My legal husband. Some people go to the courthouse to get married. Pippa and I went to our dad’s office. No one said I do. But I could have signed a page that stated such a thing at one point. I signed more documents than I ever have.
Dim lighting guides me to the living room. I stop at the glass built-in bar behind the grand piano and notice the glow of a phone moving on the back terrace. Lachlan? It hasn’t been ten minutes yet.
I scan the bottles of liquor, clueless of which to choose. I don’t drink that often compared to most college students, although that might change now that I’m married to him.
Suddenly, I’m reminded I have to experience fake kissing him on our wedding day. What is the point of a ceremony if we’re legally married?
Ugh.
With my nerves flying at 51,000 feet, I pour the closest brown liquid from a crystal decanter into a tumbler and down the drink.
I cough and cover my mouth to smother the sound. That was like a shot of petroleum. Heat spreads down my throat and into my belly. That part I like. I inhale three breaths and walk to the doors to greet Lachlan.
The cooler summer night air makes me wish I had a sweater. Rubbing my arms, I follow the phone light to the source.
“That was fast,” I say to his back. His very casually dressed back.
Huh?
The man turns and it’s Raphael. My first kiss and the only guy who’s ever seen me topless—not that I had much back then—and not necessarily by choice. He’s a fast mover, handsy in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
Raphael isn’t that tall, but he’s built and has nice bronze skin. His hair is long, brushing his shoulders. He flashes me a bright smile.
“Emery,” he says, his Spanish accented voice surprised.
