Every instinct screams to take her, mark her, put my ring on her finger and my name at the end of hers.
But there are politics at play.
War behind the curtains.
And this woman—my wicked, brilliant siren, my sweet, sexy Cecilia—is so much more important than all of it.
Fuck it. Why wait till tomorrow?
“You have your passport?”
She blinks, her breath still unsteady from dancing, from anger, from me.
“My passport? Um, I do. In my briefcase. In my trunk.”
I hold out my hand. “Keys.”
For a beat, she hesitates.
Then she hands them over.
Good girl.
I lead her to the armored SUV, open the door, and help her inside—my hand on her hip, my body crowding hers for one stolen second of heat. I toss her keys to one of my security men and speak in Greek, rapid-fire.
“Put her bags in this car. Everything. Don’t miss a damn thing.”
“What are you doing?” she snaps, twisting in her seat.
“You went shopping today? Good. You already have a head start on a wardrobe. Anything else we’ll buy once we land.”
“Land? Where? Atlas!”
I ignore the outrage in her voice as I scroll my phone, pulling up the prenup Luc Batiste sent me.
I forward it to my lawyers.
Within 10 seconds, my assistant texts back—documents received, handled, marriage license en route to the airport for printing.
Perfect.
Something soft hits my face.
I blink, look down.
Her bra is on my lap.
Her bra.
My lips quirk. My chest vibrates.
Her shirt is still on, but now I can see the bars of her pierced nipples through the thin fabric, the twin metal glints pressing against cotton.
My cock gives a vicious kick, and a sound—half growl, half warning—rumbles out of me before I can stop it.
“Put this back on,” I say, holding the bra out to her.
“Not until you tell me what the hell is going on.”
