Page 116 of LA King

My knees tremble with fear and something else that I can’t quite work out.

I tip my chin, refusing to give in to him completely, even if I will acquiesce to his demand. “Fine.”

His dark brown eyes narrow, and I feel like I might melt under the intensity of his glare. I take a deep breath in through my nose and immediately regret it. He smells incredible—a faint hint of musky cologne mixed with fresh air and Scotch.

My breath catches in my throat, and I make a faint but audible choking noise. What the hell is wrong with me? His lips curl into a cruel smile, like he knows the kind of physiological reaction he provokes in me. And it is purely physiological, because I hate him. Without another word, he spins on his heel and marches out the door, leaving me a trembling mess in his wake.

I collapse back on the bed and suck in a lungful of air, and tears spring to my eyes. I miss my old life in New York. My lovely neighbors, Simon and Gary on my left, Mr. and Mrs. Polanski on my right. My best friend, Kelsey. My hair stylist, Jermaine, who always knows exactly how to tame my frizzy mop of curly hair.

I can’t believe I left them all behind to come here.

What the hell have I done?

Chapter

Four

Alejandro

Ipour myself a generous measure of Scotch and down it in one before walking to the window of my hotel suite. I have a perfectly functional house in Bel Air, but I rarely spend any time there. I prefer being here over my quiet house that has too many rooms and not enough people to fill them.

I own this hotel. I work here. I fuck women here, and plenty of them.

After my run-in with Alana, I was filled with the kind of pent-up rage-fueled desire that I usually slake with meaningless sex. I had no intentions of going home after my meeting, but I was pulled there by an inexplicable need to check on her and make sure she was okay given our hasty wedding and my even hastier departure. Maybe it was because I couldn’t stop picturing her ass in that dress for the duration of the afternoon. Couldn’t stop remembering the way her dark brown eyes shone beneath her lashes or hearing her voice when she spoke our vows. The plump bow of her lips as she spoke each word with clarity and confidence, along with a touch of sadness. Her father is a monster for selling her to a man like me, but she wanted this life. She craved the money and prestige that would come from marrying a man like me.

When I found her lying in a bed that was not mine, wearing a nightdress that barely covered her thighs, I found myself wanting nothing more than to carry her to my bed and consummate this sham of a marriage. Thankfully, my sanity was restored when she opened her mouth and reminded me that our marriage isn’t real. Like her father, Alana Carmichael cannot be trusted.

But now I’m left with a dangerous kind of rage simmering in my veins and no way to sate it.

I considered going to the hotel bar and striking up a conversation with one of the many women who frequent the place. It would have taken less than half an hour to get one of them up here to my suite, which is how I like it. I prefer not to waste time on small talk or the art of seduction. Most of the time, much like tonight, all I want is to fuck someone. Hard.

Uncomplicated, no-strings fucking is my favorite way to unwind, and the women I do it with understand the rules of the game.

But this is my wedding night. I’m supposed to be at home seeing to my new bride rather than trawling my bar looking for a hookup, and I have to make the marriage seem at least halfway believable.

My cell vibrates with a text notification, and I open it.

Jax: I’ve sent you a wedding gift, amigo. Enjoy!

I frown at the screen, wondering what he means by that. As my second-in-command and my most trusted soldier, he’s one of the few people who knows that my marriage to Alana Carmichael is nothing more than a business arrangement.

Before I can text him back, someone knocks on the door to my suite. I open it and find my gift right there waiting.

Tall, blond, long legs, big tits, and the tiniest dress I’ve ever seen. My best buddy knows me far too well.

And I really shouldn’t, but … Fuck, if my wife doesn’t want me anywhere near her tonight, then …

“Come in,” I say, holding the door open.

She struts into the room in her high heels. “Mr. Decker thought you might be lonely up here on your own,” she purrs seductively. “So he’s sent me to take care of you.”

“How thoughtful of him.” I close the door behind her. “And you are?”

She pulls her lips into a pout and flutters her eyelashes. “Princess.”

“Princess?” I can’t help but laugh at the irony. If a spoiled New York princess isn’t on the menu tonight, maybe a different type of princess will hit the spot.

A glass of Scotch in hand, I take a seat in the armchair and watch Princess slip off her skimpy dress and stand before me wearing only a pink G-string.