The Marriage Dare

Her hair flows simply around her shoulders, and I want to see it spread out on my pillow. I want to have her drag it over my skin so I can feel its softness. She smiles shyly. This is new for her. Hell, it’s new for me. Navigating the situation is delicate, but I think we’re doing okay so far. The feeling in my gut when I see her can’t be ignored, but I refuse to let it rise to the surface. Because it’s too huge, too vast, and it terrifies me.

“Good morning,” I say.

“Morning.”

I’m the one that closes the distance between us and pulls her in for a kiss. I can’t get enough of her lips. I always wanted to kiss her. That was the first fantasy my mind always jumped to— kissing her. I never want to stop. She tastes sweet like fruit. “You look lovely,” I say as I pull away. Her cheeks turn the light pink that I crave to see when I give her a compliment. Monica is so pale that she blushes easily, and I won’t pretend that I don’t like using it to my advantage. “Thank you,” she says.

I hold my arm out to her, and she slips hers through. “Shall we?”

I like the way it feels to have her on my arm. We’re going to Cartier today, and people already know. They know because whenever I go shopping anywhere in Vegas—which is rare—I have my assistant call ahead and have them clear the place out.

“Did you sleep well?”

She laughs a little. “No. Not really.”

“Why not?”

Her cheeks tinge pink again. “Dreams. About you.”

“That’s an answer that I like to hear.”

She glares at me, but it doesn’t have much anger to it. “I did ask, you know.”

“You did.”

She shrugs. “It’s not my fault that I had to take care of it myself. Three times.”

That comment goes straight to my cock, and I shift myself in my pants as we step into the elevator. My mind is swirling with images of Monica twisted in her sheets, moaning my name in the dark. Fucking hell. I need to marry this woman, and fast. If I didn’t have the launch so soon, we would have one hell of a honeymoon. As it is, I will take her on a tour of Vegas hotels to rival anything she’s ever seen. I’ll fuck her in a different bed every night until every hotel in the city has heard her cry out my name.

And she screams so well—the way that she let go in the dining room yesterday was proof enough of that.

“You’re right,” I say, voice low. “That was not your fault.”

As we step out of my private elevator, Devon and Jack flank us. They are my most trusted security guards, but Monica’s words yesterday remind me that I should add more people into my rotation. I’ve gotten very comfortable, and I never should. I need to rely on other people and keep the net wide.

But today, on my first outing with Monica, I won’t take the chance with anyone else.

The casino is full and busy. It’s a Friday and people are arriving from out of town for the weekend. I watch Monica out of the corner of my eye, and she’s looking around at the casino, but I can’t get a read on what she’s thinking. I don’t like that. I’m so used to being able to predict people’s actions, and a good part of the time Monica is like that too. Until she retreats into herself like this. I’m not sure what causes it, but I don’t want to push her too hard. I already know that I’m pushing her boundaries.

“Devon,” I say.

“Yes, Mr. Argent?”

“Are there cameras?” I glance at him.

He nods. “Yes, sir.”

Monica looks up at me. “Cameras?”

“Paparazzi.”

“Oh.”

“The car is already waiting,” Devon says.

We walk out the front doors of the casino into a wave of sunlight, heat, and flashbulbs. The limousine is already in place, my driver holding the door open for us. I let Monica slide in first and in seconds we’re safely ensconced in the car, though I can still hear the reporters asking questions. We just made our public debut as a couple. Monica is a recognizable face thanks to her father—and the reason she’s been in such trouble. I imagine my publicist will start fielding questions about it in under an hour. As soon as they figure out who she is. But I’m not going to call her. No comment is always a better policy in the beginning. She won’t answer any questions until she talks to me.

“Haven’t seen that in a while,” Monica says. “Not since…”

She trails off, and I realize that the last time she faced press like that would have been her father’s trial. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” she says. “I’ll be fine. You’re going to have a lot of people mad at you.”