The Villain (Boston Belles 2)

“Yes, you are, and soon,” I quipped.

I wasn’t done parading her like a winning horse.

“I’m mortified.”

“Don’t be.”

“Why?” She moaned into my carpet. I supposed it was a bad time to comment it cost more than her sister’s entire studio apartment and ask her not to stain it.

“The window is tinted from the outside,” I said dryly, buckling myself up, hoping to hell she was going to fall pregnant tonight. Not only would it help me get rid of my nagging fixation with her, but it would kill any potential ex-husband drama. Something I sincerely didn’t want to deal with. I didn’t envy the bastard if he came back for what was now mine. I was never in a sharing mood.

She whipped her head, her eyes flaring.

“Are you kidding me?”

“I don’t have a sense of humor, remember?” I buttoned my shirt, which was halfway undone, though I didn’t recall taking it off.

“What was he looking at, then?” She sat up, turning around to face me, still buck naked.

“The flowerbeds on my balcony. My landscaper grows superior roses. Drives him mad.”

“Why didn’t you say so?”

“Watching you squirm turned me on.” I leaned down to pat her messy blond hair like she was a pet before walking over to my recliner and opening my cigar box next to it.

“Excuse me?”

“Gladly. You are excused. Have been for the six minutes since we finished.” I waved her off.

Her tits were fantastic, especially when she stood suddenly, in a jerky movement. Full and pear-shaped, with pink nipples like two small diamond studs. My wife grabbed her dress from the floor, sliding back into it with a shake of her head.

“Petar’ll call the driver for you.” I tucked the cigar to the side of my mouth, texting my estate manager while she jammed her feet into the nasty pair of Manolo Blahniks that gave her blisters.

“Screw you, Kill.”

“Sounds like a plan. How about tomorrow? I have an opening at lunch. If that doesn’t work, you’ll have to wait until I’m back from work at around nine thirty.”

She turned around without a word, stomping to the door. She stopped at the threshold, her hand touching the wall as she peered at me from behind her slender shoulder.

“I’m the same as you, you know.”

“Highly doubt it.” I didn’t look up from my phone, already answering an email from my legal department. Not my finest show of gentlemanly character, but I knew if I looked at her, I’d ask her to stay.

“I like to see you squirm, too.”

A smirk touched my lips.

“That’s adorable. Aim high, Flower Girl.”

“That’s why, when I danced with Andrew Arrowsmith tonight, I agreed to his proposal,” she explained calmly.

My eyes flew up from the phone in an instant.

“What proposal?”

“Oh, lookie here.” She smiled sweetly. “Now I have your attention.”

“What proposal?” I repeated, my tone lower.

“To tutor his children.”

I saw what Arrowsmith was doing there.

Putting my wife close to my secret. To my shame. To the loaded gun in the room. Making her realize what I was, what it meant, how inferior I was to her blatant perfection.

I darted from my seat, about to give her a piece of my mind.

She lifted a hand.

“Save it, hubs. You have your conditions, and I have mine. One of them was I wanted to keep working.”

“As a pre-K teacher, not my archenemy’s au pair. This goes against the non-compete contract, which, by the way, you signed.”

“You can’t tell me what to do with my career.”

Her voice was peaceful, like the sailing clouds she loved so much.

Red-hot anger slithered in my veins. My pulse quickened.

Not good.

“I just did.” I flashed my teeth, smoke seeping from my mouth. “And I’m saying it again, for the brain cells in the back: you’re not working for Andrew Arrowsmith. See? Easy.”

She clasped her hands together, all sugar and honey. “In that case, you’re not drilling in the Arctic.”

And just like that, I was no longer in danger of asking her to stick around.

“Sorry, sweetheart, your job is riding my cock, not giving me business advice.”

She nodded. “Then yours is knocking me up, not telling me who I can visit during my weekends and who to work with.”

“This is a violation of our contract,” I warned.

She pretended to think about it, then hitched a shoulder up.

“Leave me then.”

“You know divorce is not an option,” I gritted out.

She winced. “It does take the sting out of the contract, doesn’t it?”

The little sh…

She had a point.

“I’m going to make your life very miserable if you defy me, Persephone.”

My wife waved her hand around as she slipped through my door.

“Been there, done that. Night, hubs!”

The next day, I loitered in the teachers’ lounge during my lunch break, clutching the leftover Trader’s Joe enchilada, shifting from foot to foot like a punished kid.

The welts on my butt were sore, but it was the scars Cillian left on my soul that scorched painfully.