I blinked long and slow, bracing for whatever came next. Because I knew Emily well enough to know that tone—the gentle, feminine, almost youthful voice she used when she thought she was being a cute submissive—hinted at more.
“I miss you.”
Yet, somehow, she didn’t know me well enough to know how much the child-like naivety grated on my nerves. “I’m sure other men are vying for your attention.”
“Maybe.” She shrugged again, this time with a guileless pout. However, it quickly transformed into a heavy-lidded smile after she glanced past my shoulder and back to me. Before I could question it, she leaned in and rested her hand against my upper thigh. If someone were to look back, it would appear as if her hand were in my lap under the table. “It was good to see you again, Lucian,” she said, so close her breath brushed my ear.
I angled a direct look at her, needing her to understand she was pushing her luck, but wanting to remain polite. “Good to see you too, Emily.”
Unaffected by my cold tone, she winked and smiled as she pulled away.
Sighing, I lifted my bourbon for a drink.
“That looked cozy.”
My drink almost shot out of my nose. After a few coughs, I collected myself and brought my gaze to the entirely composed face of my fiancée. “Aspen, what are you doing here?”
“I have a better question. What areyoudoing here?”
Guilt tried to burrow into my chest, but I shoved it aside. I hadn’t done anything wrong. I’d never promised some loving marriage with me being home for dinner every night. I’d only ever promised sex and ensuring she got the last five percent of her company when the time came.
I met her placid expression with one of my own and gestured to Rose and Corbin, who were talking to others. “I’m visiting friends.”
“And watching other women,” she uttered under her breath, surveying the room.
“I didn’t know watching was against the rules of our arrangement.” I dropped my attention to my glass as I swirled the contents, trying to work through the mix of emotions. Part of me liked her apparent jealousy, but I also needed to remind both of us about the expectations I’d clearly stated when we first started.
Her lengthy pause had me wondering if maybe I wasn’t the only one struggling to remain on stable ground.
“It’s not, but maybe you could afford me the common courtesy of letting me know. Maybe—” A challenging tone chilled her words, and I braced myself. “I want to watch, too.”
I whipped wide eyes to her, my jaw clenched tight, unable to stop the gut reaction. The thought of her watching another man without me—of finding pleasure from someone else—sent a flood of testosterone through my veins, urging me to throw her over my shoulder and carry her away like some caveman.
The slow smirk curving her lips urged me to rein in my baser instincts.
Unwilling to give her room to question my reaction and what it revealed, I shifted the spotlight to her actions. “So, what? Is hunting me down something I should expect in our marriage?”
“No,” she scoffed, fumbling under the unexpected shift. Again, I wondered if I wasn’t the only one struggling to act without revealing too much. “I wanted to ask why you rescheduled tomorrow’s interview. Again.”
I cocked a brow, staring blankly. “You could ask me that any time.”
“Really? Because I’ve barely seen you. Which is impressive since we live together.”
“You can always reach me through email,” I offered, my tone bored.
Her eyes flared wide and angry. “We freaking live together, Lucian. I am not emailing to talk to my fiancé.”
“I’ve been busy with work, and my work comes first.”
“I know that,” she practically growled.
Once upon a time, I craved breaking past her cool façade. Now, it only increased the knots tightening my stomach.
She wasn’t just angry—she was hurt, and that was dangerous.
Because hurt implied expectation.
Expectation implied she wanted more.
