Escorting the Groom (The Escort Collection 4)

But that was then. This was now.

If the trust terms were deemed voidable, I would inherit the money soon. I wouldn't have to stay married to Blake for the rest of the year. We wouldn't have to pretend to be madly in love, and I wouldn't conscientiously consummate our marriage every single night, often several times a night.

In other words, I wouldn't need her anymore. She could go.

The thought made me physically ill.

So I went home to the one person who could make it all better—the one I was also beginning to see as the root of my problem.

Chapter Eighteen

Blake

Lucas had texted me from the car to tell me he was on his way home.

He told me he wanted me in bed, ready for him.

I did as I was told, anxious to be with him. I tried to quiet that part of myself that was aching for him. I needed to get my shit together. Because there is only one way this is ending, and that is in tears.

But I had a whole year before I had to cry, I reminded myself. A smile played on my lips as I took a quick shower and waited for him. Even though it had only been a few short weeks, my attachment to Lucas had grown strong. I missed him when he left for work, and I couldn't wait for him to come through the door and take me into his arms at the end of the day.

I was waiting for him on the bed when he came in, his dark eyes were stormy. "Hey," I said, sitting up, "is everything okay?"

"I don't want to talk." Lucas stripped off his coat and tie and began unbuttoning his shirt.

"That bad, huh?"

I caught a brief flash of pain on his face, but it disappeared quickly. He came to me and buried his face against my chest. I ran my fingers through his thick curls, relishing the feel of his naked body on mine. But I could also feel waves of worry rolling off of him. Maybe a deal had gone sour at work.

I traced my fingers down his face and over his bottom lip. He grabbed my hand, pulling it over my head, and brought his lips against mine for a savage, consuming kiss. His erection rubbed fiercely against me, straining with need.

I was dizzy, almost breathless, by the time he finally pulled back. He leaned up, his sculpted torso above mine, and stared down at me. I knew he didn't want to talk about it, but something was definitely off. I wanted to ask if it was me, if I'd done something to upset him.

But just as I opened my mouth to ask the question, his lips were on mine, devouring me again.

Using his knee, Lucas spread my legs apart. He took both my hands and threaded his fingers through mine, then pinned them above my head. He dipped his hips, rubbing his cock back and forth against my slick heat until I was moaning, begging him to enter me.

He obeyed, penetrating me all at once, his thickness filling me completely.

I gasped at the fullness. "Fuck, Lucas."

His thrusts were rapid and deep. Almost desperate. He was so hard that he rubbed against that part of me only he could reach—what I assumed was my G-spot. He continued to stroke me deep inside, his thrusts relentless, punishing, and insistent. He claimed me by going deeper each time. No one else could ever love me like this. I cried out, tears running down my face, as I came so hard I saw stars.

Then he came in me, grunting and crushing me against him. My pussy quaked around him and sucked everything he had to give, pleasure and pure female triumph radiating through me. When we could finally move again, he pulled me next to him, cradled me closely against his chest, and stroked my hair. Lucas's tenderness was raw. It was real. I never felt so cared for, so vital to someone else, in my entire life as I did just then.

He was clutching me as if I was the last life preserver on the Titanic.

So I was confused when, a minute later, he jumped up from the bed and ran for the shower so fast that it almost gave me whiplash.

The rest of the week passed in a similar fashion. A surly Lucas would come home from work early every day, and we would make love furiously. I caught him staring at me on several occasions with a fierce, longing look in his eyes.

Finally, one night over our third respective glasses of wine, I couldn't take it anymore. "What the hell is the matter with you?" I blurted out.

He blinked in surprise. "You can tell something's bothering me?"

"It's sort of obvious. At least to me."

For some reason, that statement seemed to make him look even angrier. "That's just fucking perfect."