Rule's Addiction (The House of Rule 3)

“I don’t feel nice. I feel pissed. I feel like I want you with me all the fucking time and all you give a shit about is this fucking hotel.”

She swallowed harshly. “That’s not true.”

“Then why the fuck won’t you come live with me in St. Louis, travel me with, be with me?” he asked, fire in his eyes.

Maria stared at him, confused. “Because—because I didn’t know—didn’t think—”

“Didn’t think I loved you?”

She stared up at him, unable to hide the answer in her eyes.

His mouth firmed into a thin line. “I do love you. How the hell do you think I could feel this obsession for someone I didn’t love?”

“I don’t know,” she answered softly.

His hand snaked up and he palmed her breast. “So here’s the question,” he inhaled deeply, his eyes serious, “You feel anything in return?”

Her pulse quickened as she stared up at him. “Yes,” she admitted softly.

“Yeah?” he asked shortly. “You want to be more specific?”

Maria felt her lips lift into a smile. She bit her bottom lip as her face turned hot. She braced herself and said, “I love you.”

“Well, thank fuck for that,” he said, just before his mouth fell to hers. He kissed her hotly, roughly for about thirty seconds, devouring her mouth, before suddenly, his touch on her turned gentle.

He lifted his head and stared into her eyes. “I should probably be completely honest,” he said in a voice that sounded as if it was costing him.

Maria swallowed, her muscles tensing for something bad. “You probably should.”

He reached down, took her hands in his and lifted them above her head, plastering them to the wall. He pushed between her legs and stared down at her. “The last two weeks have been the worst two weeks of my life.” His mouth tightened. “And I’ve had some bad weeks, baby. I’m not going through that shit again. I’m not prepared to take the chance that someone might try to steal you away from me. I’d just be scared and pissed all the time.” He took a deep breath and bit out, “I’m not going to be satisfied until there’s a ring on your finger.”

An arrow of joy and relief pierced through her heart. She lifted her chin and throwing his words back at him, she challenged, “You want to be more specific?”

His face split into a smile. Releasing one of her hands, he put his fingers under her chin and stared into her eyes, his smile dissolving as a serious quality took over his expression. “I love you, Maria Alvarez. Will you marry me?”

Pleasure, in its purest form held her in its grip. She reached out and hit his shoulder, before wrapping her arm around his neck in a stranglehold. “Why, Mr. Rule, I thought you’d never ask.”

Epilogue

Seven years later

Garrett knocked on the bathroom door, while keeping one eye on his kids who were running around the hotel suite like proverbial chickens with their heads cut off. “Maria—are you ready, babe?”

“Almost,” she answered through the door.

“Well, hurry up. The kids are going to tear the place down if we don’t get them to the pool pretty soon.”

“I’m almost ready. Just give me a sec—” her words stopped when he opened the door and stuck his head in.

He felt his body harden as he looked her up and down. “You think you’re wearing that?” he asked through gritted teeth. He usually loved the vacations they took to Miami. But this time . . . not so much.

She looked at herself in the mirror and tilted her head as if the choice were entirely hers. When would she ever get it? “I think so,” she said absently, as if she hadn’t decided yet.

He ran his eyes over her ripe curves. Curves that had only gotten better since childbirth and motherhood. Curves that never failed to turn him on. “Nope,” he bit out.

She turned to look at him. “Nope? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re not wearing it. It’s a string-fucking-bikini, Maria,” he exaggerated, maybe a bit too harshly.

“No, it’s not,” she laughed.

“It’s a bikini,” he qualified, his gaze glued to her breasts.

She rolled her eyes. “No, it’s not.”

“It’s a two-piece,” he accused, not about to give in.

She turned back to the mirror and frowned. “It’s a tankini—”

“I don’t give a shit what you want to call it. You’re not wearing it down to the pool.”

“What’s got you so riled all of a sudden?” she asked with an edge of concern.

“Nothing,” his mouth flattened. “I’m going to sell the goddamn hotel,” he threatened under his breath.

She choked off a bark of laughter and turned back to him. “You can’t,” she smiled like the cat that had gotten the cream. “You gave it to me for a wedding present, remember?”

Son-of-a-bitch. He had done that. He’d purchased it from the corporation and then gifted it to his wife. He couldn’t sell it. His hands were tied. “Whatever. You’re not wearing that.”