If Persephone thought she was going to run around, visiting her ex-husband’s family, and keeping in touch with the Veitch clan—maybe even with Paxton himself—she was sorely mistaken. She was mine now, and if I had to close the deal by impregnating her this week, I was up for the job.
Once we arrived at my house, Petar dashed from his room to see if I needed anything.
A loyal wife would be nice.
“Out of my way.” I waved him off. Persephone and I headed to my study on the second floor, ascending the Tuscan staircase.
I closed the door behind us, strolled over to my desk, retrieved the stupid contract from my breast pocket, and slapped it on the table. Producing my own pen from a nearby drawer—one without a goddamn plumbing company’s name—I signed the contract, handing my soul over to my wife, then held the paper between my index and middle fingers in the air.
She lifted her arm to snatch it. I tilted my arm up, shaking my head slowly.
“I found a price for my soul.”
“Let’s hear it.” She folded her arms over her chest.
“Stop visiting your ex-husband’s grandmother. It is inappropriate, ungrateful, and sends the wrong message.”
There was a beat of silence in which she tried to digest how I’d known about this to begin with.
“No,” she said, point-blank. “She has no one. She is senile, and lonely, and in desperate need of companionship. She doesn’t have much longer to live. I’m not going to turn my back on her.”
It surprised me she didn’t deny visiting her ex-relative.
Although it shouldn’t have. I was always under the impression Persephone was easier to handle than her friends and sister—aka the PMS Brigade. In practice, my wife simply had an unconventional approach to things. Instead of standing her ground, she perched on it cutely with a sweet smile on her face.
But she was still, technically, on her ground, not moving an inch.
“She’s not your responsibility anymore.” Bracing my knuckles over my desk to stop myself from popping them, I leaned forward, feeling the threads of my cool unraveling.
“I’m not buying your soul for the price of tarnishing mine.” She erected her spine. “Sorry, hubs, you’ll have to think of something else.”
“I’ll hire a nurse for her.”
Was I really negotiating with this woman? Again?
“No,” she said flatly.
“Two nurses,” I gritted out.
She shook her head.
“The woman is senile.” I bared my teeth. “She is not going to know the difference between you and a professional.”
“But I will.” She unfastened her hair clip, her golden locks spilling like waterfalls on her shoulders. “And I’ll know I turned my back on someone helpless just because of my husband’s whim.”
I wanted to…wanted to…what the fuck did I want to do to this woman?
And why the fuck did I think the word fuck in my head just now?
I did it again.
God-fucking-dammit.
She ambled toward me, putting her hand on mine from across the desk.
“Cillian,” she whispered. “Listen to me. The two most important decisions in our lives are not ours to make. Our creation and our death. We don’t choose to be born, and we don’t choose when or how we die. But everything in-between? That’s our jurisdiction. We can fill in the blanks as we please. And I choose to fill mine by doing the right thing. By being a good friend—a good human—according to my standards.”
Calmly, I retrieved the contract between us and shoved it into my office drawer. I locked it, disposing the key in my front pocket. I wasn’t going to get my way—not tonight, anyway—but negotiations were my playground, and the small print was where I thrived.
She was going to stop seeing the old hag, if I had to work full-time at making it happen.
I rounded the desk, leaning against it and crossing my ankles.
“Come here.”
She closed the space between us without hesitation, willing and responsive. Perfect. I’d never met someone so agreeable yet so stubborn.
We were flush against each other, her flowery scent invading my nostrils.
“Seen your Aunt Tilda recently?” My hand slid to her cheek, palming it. She took a ragged breath, her entire body trembling to my briefest touch.
I wondered how receptive she was to her ex-husband.
How hard she quivered when pressed against someone she’d actually chosen.
Someone whose arms I sent her directly to.
“Yeah, I did, in fact, the other day…” She stammered, letting me tug her into position. Her thighs straddled my right leg. I angled her so her clit pressed against my muscled quads. “Uhm, which, I guess, was Tuesday?”
She wasn’t thinking straight.
Unfortunately, neither was I.
I dipped my head down at the same time she tilted hers up, her lips parting for me. I took her mouth in mine, pressing my knee between her thighs, feeling her muscles sealing against me. A moan fell from her mouth. She pushed her breasts to my chest, rubbing against me everywhere, craving friction. My tongue danced with hers, and I gathered her face in my hands, deepening the kiss, trailing my mouth down her chin, then her neck, stopping to draw a lazy circle around her racing pulse with the tip of my tongue when I reached the sensitive part of her throat.