“Now we go home and you learn what it means to be my wife.”
She rolls her eyes. “I told you there’s no way in hell we’re sleeping together. I hope your hand is well rested since it’ll be the only thing entertaining you on the honeymoon.”
“We're married now.” I let my gaze travel down her body slowly, deliberately. “That changes things.”
“It changes nothing.”
“We'll see about that, Mrs. Viacava.”
When we arrive back at my building, I get out first and walk around to open her door. Again, she ignores my hand and pushes past me.
I watch as she struts into the building, my lips forming a small smile as she blows into the place,all hell hath no fury.
She's my wife now. Legally, officially, permanently.
The ring on her finger proves it. The fury in her eyes promises this is going to be interesting.
She thinks she can resist me, thinks she’s getting out after six months.
She has no idea what I'm capable of.
This marriage might have been her father’s idea, but making her want me?
That's gonna be pure pleasure.
9
TIERNEY
I’ve survived covert operations, physical combat, and my father’s disappointment.
Five days married to Bronx Viacava has tested me in ways none of those ever did.
So far, I haven’t strangled him in his sleep.
Lucky for him, the bed he insisted we share is big enough for a small army.
I go to bed first, stick to my side, and each morning I wake to find him sprawled across half the mattress like some sun-warmed deity, wearing nothing but silk boxers.
The second my eyes open, I throw back the sheets and get out without letting my gaze linger on his tanned, cut abdomen or the dark lashes resting against cheekbones that look engineered rather than grown.
Six seconds. That’s my record.
I pull on the sweatshirt he’d left draped over a chair; the fabric hanging off me and smelling faintly of his belly-flipping cologne.
It’s simply a necessity to drown out the silk pajama set he bought without asking. Considering I arrived here with nothing, I’m not in a position to protest.
I perch on a stool at the black marble kitchen island and sip my sugary latte. Some blessings arrive disguised as frothy coffee.
That’s what I tell myself while sitting in a billionaire’s penthouse, wearing a ring that’s not my style and a surname that makes me gag when I think about it.
“Did you make me a coffee too, princess?”
Bronx strolls into the kitchen with that lazy swagger of his and a grin that would undo any woman who didn’t know better.
“I’m not your servant.” I flip him the bird and take another sip.
“Still a cranky little wife.” He reaches for a mug in the high cupboard and, damn, his tattoos catch the daylight and come alive against his skin. “I’ve given you a few days to adjust. Now it’s time you learned how I like my coffee.”
