Page 18 of LA King

“But you said⁠—”

“Forget what I said.” I slam my hands down on the table and she flinches. I feel like a piece of shit for scaring her, but she’s getting way too close. “But remember this, Wife. I am your husband. When you leave this house, you are a representation of me. If I ever find out he has touched you, or that you have allowed him to, or you have even smiled at him the wrong way, I will peel his skin from his body, and I will make you watch while I do it. Do you understand me?”

Her skin pales. “Yes,” she says quietly. We sit in silence for a few seconds, tension thick in the air, before she speaks again. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to finish reading my book.”

Closing my eyes, I nod and hear her chair being pushed back. When I reopen them, she’s gone.

Later that night, I crawl into bed beside her, waiting until I’m sure she’ll be asleep. She’s lying on her side, facing the window and away from me. As she seems to have an aversion to covers and sleeps in the tiniest pair of panties and a tank top, I have an incredible view of her sexy round ass.

I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling, but my eyes are drawn to her repeatedly. My cock is rock hard. I wrap my hand around it and squeeze tightly, hoping for some relief, but it offers me none.

All I can think about is how easy it would be for me to roll onto my side, pull those tiny panties of hers out of my way, and slide myself inside her. If I fuck her just one time, maybe I can get her out of my head.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to force the images from my brain. My cock is weeping for her. I contemplate getting myself off, but the thought of her waking up and catching me jerking off over her isn’t one I relish.

So, I lie beside her with a throbbing cock and a throbbing head and wonder why I didn’t just go to the hotel, where I wouldn’t have been subjected to such torture.

I must drift off at some point because I wake up at six in the morning. Glancing at Alana’s sleeping form, I have a vague memory of her hand on my chest in the night, her warm skin resting lightly against my own. And then I have an even more pleasant memory of her hand squeezing my hard cock—I must have dreamed that.

Hopeful that a long run will take my mind off her and her sinful curves, I pull on my shorts and running shoes. I’m stopped by a rush of guilt when I steal another look at her on my way out the door. I was harsh with her last night, and she didn’t deserve it. She’s given me no reason to suspect she’s a cheater, and Hugo isn’t stupid enough to try anything with her. There’s no rational explanation for why she stokes such possessive need in me. This thing we have isn’t real; why am I acting like I want that to change? Why do I long to see the expression of contentment she wore last night and know that I’m responsible for it?

It makes no sense.

Alana Montoya is working her way into my affections, and I don’t know how to stop her. And I’m not sure I want to.

Chapter

Eleven

Alejandro

Unusually, I oversleep, and Alana isn’t in bed when I wake. Not unusual, I have a raging hard-on and nothing but my hand to fuck. Although that’s not entirely true. I could fuck my wife. Given the way she looks at me through those dark lashes when she thinks I can’t see her and the way her pupils dilate when we make eye contact, I’m confident she wouldn’t reject my advances.

Or maybe she would and I’m fooling myself completely.

It’s true things between us have been less strained since my mom’s visit three weeks ago. Hugo is working out well as Alana’s personal bodyguard, and since she never leaves the house without him, I’m able to get on with my life without worrying about her safety. Doesn’t stop me thinking about her almost constantly, but at least I know she’s safe.

I continue to spend most of my time at my hotel, hoping the distance will cure this growing obsession I seem to be developing with her. Because when I am home, I can’t stop fucking watching her, thinking about touching her, imagining what it would be like to kiss her, to fuck her.

I scrub a hand through my hair and stalk to the bathroom. This is why I won’t fuck her. Because she’s already too far under my skin for comfort. Surely this intense attraction to her will lessen with time, become purely physical. So that when I do finally take her, which I will, it will be nothing more than sex. Alana Carmichael is the doting daughter of a snake, and she is not to be trusted.

She goes out almost every day with the charity ladies, and it seems sipping champagne and cocktails every afternoon is a good way for a Manhattan princess to pass her time.

I head to the kitchen after my shower, looking for some coffee before my morning commute but stop when I hear Alana and Magda speaking in hushed tones.

“The house is wonderful. You have everything you could ever need within these walls,” Magda says, sounding defensive.

Alana gives a sad laugh. “The house is beautiful, yes, but …”

A better man would announce his presence and not eavesdrop on their private conversation, but I’m not that man. I find myself eager to hear what will follow that “but.”

Magda is silent.

“It feels like I’m a prisoner here,” Alana says. “There are so many guards everywhere. I know I get to leave with Hugo, but it’s not the same as being able to come and go as I please.”

“Well, that is the way of things here,” Magda tells her, not dismissive but matter-of-fact.

“I suppose.” Alana sighs. “You should have seen my place in New York, Magda. It was this big.” She giggles, and I’m annoyed I can’t see what she’s doing with her hands. “God, I miss it so much.”