Page 38 of Marry Lies
Her jaw clenches. “Fine.”
Just as she turns her head away, I hear a click followed quickly by a flash. Estelle jumps with surprise.
“Beautiful,” the photographer says from behind us. “Pretend like I’m not here,” he says, his voice nasally.
Estelle glances up at me. “Who is that?” she asks.
My lips tug down into a deeper frown. “Sorry,” I tell her, my voice low, so only she can hear. “I was just coming to warn you that my father booked a quick photoshoot forUS Weekly.”
She drops her lashes quickly and looks down at the ground. “Of course. How do you want me?”
I furrow my brows at her. In place of her usual sunny personality is a monotone voice and restrained body language.Did I do that to her by apologizing for the kiss?
She steps closer. “Like this?” she asks, looking up at me with those large, indigo eyes.
It feels like a test. Something sparks behind her eyes, and I can’t tell if she’s angry or disappointed.
Probably both.
I place my hands on her shoulders. “Perfect.”
I don’t break eye contact, but before I can pull away, the camera flashes.
“Amazing,” the photographer says. “Miles, can you kiss her?”
I swallow.Fuck.
“Don’t get carried away this time,” she whispers so only I can hear her. When my eyes flash to hers, she only glares right back at me.
Of course, I do the exact opposite of what she asks. Gripping the back of her neck, I pull her to my lips for the third time today, thrusting my tongue inside of her mouth and pressing her against the railing a little too roughly. My other hand moves down to her hip, and I tug her pelvis into mine just as she moans.
Fuck…
I pull away—no, I nearlypushher away as I take a few steadying breaths. My eyes dart across her face, and she gives me a feline smile.
She knew what she was doing when she warned me not to get carried away.
“Excellent,” the photographer says, clicking away. “Miles, can you have a seat on one of those chairs?” he asks, gesturing to the iron patio furniture.
I twist away from Estelle, jaw ticking, as I take a seat.
Estelle saunters over, sitting on my lap without taking any direction from him whatsoever. She’s a natural. Her ass is warm and soft, and I get a whiff of Chanel No. 5 as she slides one arm around the back of my shoulders, leaning into me.
“You look like you’re being tortured,” she says, her voice a low growl into my ear.
“This is worse than torture,” I snap back quietly, nostrils flaring.
She rears her head and looks down at me with surprise. “You’re an arsehole. Has anyone ever told you that?”
I bark a laugh. “I told you to stay away from me.”
She scoffs. The photographer snaps more pictures, and she leans down toward my ear as if she’s about to whisper sweet nothings. But I know better.
“Well, I’m stuck with you now, so let’s try to make the best of it.”
“Estelle, can you kiss his neck?” the photographer asks.
Estelle stiffens on top of me, and it only further fuels the fire inside of me. Of course she doesn’t want to go anywhere near my scars. Why would she?
