Page 13 of Guilty as Sin

He quirks another eyebrow at me, a silent Well?

I clench my fists at my sides, digging my nails into my palms so I can focus on the pain.

“I will not be performing any wifely duties,” I tell my husband.

He laughs at me. It could be a laugh of surprise, but all I hear is scorn. I swallow hard.

“I’m not having sex with you,” I clarify. “I will not be sleeping with you tonight, or any time in the future.”

Brady shrugs again, as if I’ve told him the most boring weather report.

“Suit yourself. My penthouse has two spare bedrooms, so you can take your pick. Our penthouse,” he corrects with a grin.

I’d known that moving in with him was part of the arrangement I’d agreed to. But hearing him say Our penthouse makes it all too real. I grope for the remaining pieces of my prepared speech, but they scatter away from me.

“Just because I’m sharing your apartment does not mean I’m sharing your STIs,” I say. I hear how ridiculous it sounds, but when Brady starts to laugh, I talk over him. “And I’m not performing the wifely duty of bearing your children, either. I have an IUD, and I have no intention of getting rid of it.”

My face goes hot as soon as I say this last part. It made sense in my head. I know his family is Irish Catholic, but I don’t know his personal opinion on birth control, so I wanted to make sure he knows mine. But of course, the way I phrased it sounded like an invitation to have protected sex.

He cocks his head at me.

“Do you really think the only reasons to have sex are to get pregnant and swap STIs?”

My throat is so dry I don’t trust myself to speak. I try to shake my head, but I’m standing too rigidly. With my neck stiff and my knees locked, it feels like breaking my pose in any way would be a form of yielding.

Brady chuckles to himself and pulls out his phone. He taps through it unhurriedly, then holds the screen out to me. Given that I’m several feet away, all I can see is a white background with black text. Brady makes no move to get up from the loveseat, nor does he show any sign of impatience that I’m still halfway across the room. He simply keeps holding out his phone, as if he couldn’t care less whether I see what’s on it or not.

I feel my right knee bend, my curiosity getting the better of me. Then I’m stepping forward, approaching him, doing everything I can to keep my movements as nonchalant as his.

To my surprise, Brady hands me his phone, rather than making me bend down to see. Our fingers brush, unintentionally on my part. The brief contact rushes heat through me, and my palms get so sweaty I have to readjust my grip on his phone before I can read it.

It’s a medical report with Brady’s name, the visit date two days ago. Beneath it, a litany of STI test results dated yesterday. All negative. My sweaty hands slip on the phone, and I recover by tossing it back at Brady, a clumsy throw. He catches it deftly.

“So you can forge test results,” I say. “That’s cool.”

He scowls at the accusation. It’s a dangerous expression, but I hold my ground.

“I’m a doctor,” I tell him. I prefer to call myself an ophthalmologist, but doctor works best with arrogant men like him. “Tests like this take at least three days to process.”

Brady’s scowl melts away, and his lips slide into a one-sided smile.

“The O’Sullivan name can achieve quite a lot in this town.” He sets aside his phone like he’s won his point, the evidence no longer needed.

I put my hands on my hips to show I don’t believe him. Beneath my overheated palms, the silk of my exquisite gown is cool to the touch. Damn it. The O’Sullivan name did get me a tailored Oscar de la Renta in two days.

That name, in this city, wields power. Brady’s always had access to it.

But now I do too. And I’m not about to let him win whatever weird argument this is.

“So you’re the type of guy who needs frequent and rapid testing, then?”

“No,” he laughs. “I’m the type of man who gets tested as soon as he’s told he’s being given a wife.”

“Being given?” I spit out the words. “I was not given to you. I chose this. I made my decision, you said so yourself.”

“So…” Brady runs the tip of his finger around the rim of his champagne flute, calm as ever despite my outrage. “You’re saying you’ve chosen to give yourself to me?”

I’m rigid again. It’s the only way I can maintain my self-assurance right now.