“Well, you are weird,” says Max, amiably.
“There is that.” He grins and…whoa. Yep. The man is stunning. The kind of beauty I’d like to capture on film. He should be a star, dammit. People need to see this charisma, that smile, the heat in his eyes.
I reach out and he clasps my hand and his is warm, but dry, and his handshake is the right amount of tight—not trying to impress, but somehow respectful. He’s attractive. Wildly so. And clearly interested.
And I feel absolutely nothing. No excitement—aside from the sudden desire to catch him on film and see if he’s got the on-screen allure to go with his amazing good looks.
Not a hint of that visceral buzzing I get whenever Zion’s near.
“Hey,” I say, in total admiration, but beyond annoyed at my own body.
“You going in?”
I nod.
“I’m doing a flogging demo. Maybe you could stop by. Try me out.” His hand releases me. “So what’s your name?”
“Oh, sorry.” My face goes hot.
“This is Twilight,” Max cuts in.
And then he changes.
The smile drops, his easy closeness shifts to sudden distance, the flirtatious glow in his eyes hardens. His mouth loses its sultry smirk. “Shit.” He shakes his head, hands up in front of him. “Sorry. My mistake.”
“Why? What’s going on?” I’m totally confused.
“You’re Zed’s.”
“I’mwhat?”
“You’re mine,” says another voice from the dark. Only this time—of course—it’s Zion’s.
I turn, ready for a fight.
* * *
Zion
“Excuse me?” says a very irate Twyla Hernandez, so beautiful I want to pamper her or put her on a pedestal or pick her up, throw her over my shoulder and take her back to my goddamn cave.
“You’re my wife,” I grate out, fully aware that I’m digging my own grave, but unable to stop.
What can I say? My rational brain’s been on hiatus since she showed up here. And who can blame me when she looks like every teenage fantasy I ever had, on a platter. Most of my adult fantasies, too.
The little top she’s got on doesn’t count as actual clothing, since it covers literally nothing. Not her shoulders, back or belly or tits, and definitely not the bite-sized brown nipples that threaten to poke out every time the slithery strings of diamonds shift. Which is every second, because she’s a living, breathing dream. I can’t function while she stands there in that top. And I definitely can’t trust my mouth to make sense.
I’m not even letting myself look at the bottom half again. I’d die right here.
I thought I wanted her before camp, before the marriage, hell, before we even met, but this is pure fire.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but we’re getting a divorce. This farce is over.”
My eyes shift up to her face. “I don’t want that.”
“No? Well, maybe you should have thought about that before embarrassing me in front of thewhole entire world, Zed.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” And then, because there’s clearly something wrong with me, I open my mouth again.
