She beamed around the lollipop, her lips swollen and achingly kissable. “We’re not having sex in your bathroom. I have more self-respect than that.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, half-sardonic, half-hopeful. “So far, you’ve acted like a glorified mail-order bride. Bending over the vanity would be well within your typical behavior.”
She laughed.
She actually laughed.
Flipping her hair to one shoulder, my wife spun on her heel.
“Goodbye, hubs.”
She strutted her way to the door, all fire, sugar, and temptation. She knew exactly what she was doing, and she did it well. No part of her was meek and naïve now.
Not accustomed to having women leave before verbally excusing them, I watched with fascination mixed with annoyance. I’d never had to figure out how to keep someone close. Usually, my status, power, and fat wallet did it for me.
Watching her leave made me feel as though I’d been robbed of something.
“Persephone,” I barked.
She stopped.
“Turn around.”
“No.”
“Don’t make me teach you a lesson.”
“Why?” she asked brightly. “I’m a good student. Although I think I’m the one who is giving you a valuable class today. If you want me to stay, you’re going to have to ask nicely and not order me around.”
My instincts urged me to disregard her. Put her in her place. But that would be acting out of emotions, and I didn’t do those. Normal Cillian—sane Cillian—would humor her to get what he wanted and then discard her.
Quarreling with her wasn’t going to bring me a step closer to triumph. Or to having an heir.
Swallowing down a juicy curse I couldn’t believe I thought about, let alone could utter, I took a breath.
“Please turn around.”
She did, slowly. And for the first time, I realized how awful it felt to be at someone else’s mercy. The humbleness in my situation made me borderline nauseous.
Knock her up and get rid of her. You’ll be the last one to laugh when she is changing diapers and raising your future heirs while you’re deep inside a French socialite.
“Would you like to have dinner with me?” I spat out.
“Yes.” Her smile was warm like the sun, full of promise. “Tonight okay?”
“Tonight’s fine.”
“Why don’t I cook for us?”
Because it will probably taste horrible.
But these were thoughts I needed to filter at least until my objective was achieved. Not being unbearable was a learning curve.
“I have a private chef. We can also order in.”
She shook her head. “Nothing beats a home-cooked meal.”
“Where do you think my chef cooks my meals? Not the bathroom,” I bit out.
Definitely a learning curve.
She laughed. “Your chef doesn’t cook with their heart.”
“Fortunately,” I scowled, “that would be unhygienic. Any preferences?”
Her eyes traveled down to my crotch. Heat rose up my spine. It was the celibacy. I wasn’t used to being dependent on someone else’s availability.
Was this what monogamy felt like? No wonder the divorce rate in Western countries was through the roof.
“Don’t worry about my preferences. Just let me do the cooking. I have one stipulation.”
There were always stipulations with this woman.
But no matter how much I wanted to regret marrying her and not sticking to my Minka Gomes plan, I had to admit Persephone was an aphrodisiac the carnal side of me couldn’t refuse.
Her biting beauty, easy wit, and warm personality gave her a regal shine. Like all rare jewels, I wanted her for myself for the sake of having her.
Tucking my hands into my front pockets, I shot her a look.
“Well?”
“I want it to be at your place.”
“Done.”
I wasn’t a sentimental man. Bringing her to my bed wouldn’t make me associate said bed with her in it. She wasn’t a goddamn safety blanket.
If she thought she was tricking me into developing feelings toward her, she was gravely mistaken.
“See you at seven.” She turned away, leaving me with a hard-on, a bad mood, and the uneasy sense I’d just made a terrible mistake.
Getting rid of her just turned from a plan to a necessity.
I needed to remove my wife from my life before she trickled into my system.
My main issue was, I didn’t know how to cook.
My second issue was, I actually hoped fixing Kill a home-cooked meal (which was very likely to taste like mothballs) was going to make a difference.
But my third and most pressing issue was the one I concentrated on right now—I was pretty sure I was setting my husband’s kitchen on fire.
Maybe it was Karma bitch-slapping me for playing dirty.
Once it had become obvious that Husband Dearest wasn’t going to make the first step to see me, I’d decided to drop by his office and milk a dinner date out of him.
I was desperate to form a connection while he was determined to protect my virtue. In many ways, it felt like having an impotent sugar daddy—I got all the perks but not the dick.
The problem was, I wanted the dick. The shoes were great, but not so great I wanted to moan their names.