Love Contract (Bride of the Billionaire)
He stops at the front door and turns to me, his eyebrows raised.
“It’ll be hard,” I say snarkily. “But I’ll do my best.”
Winter opens the door and, like a gentleman, holds it for me. Awkwardly, I step past him and hide my face so he won’t see me blush.
Waiting for us is some kind of big, expensive, black car that looks like Puff Daddy would drive it. A driver opens the door for me. Now I’m really feeling like a princess.
I slide in the back seat, and Winter gets in beside me. The driver shuts the door and goes around to the front. Winter’s eyes feel like they’re ready to bore a hole in my skull. I turn and look at him. There’s no mistaking what’s on his mind…or mine, so I say the only thing I can think of.
“Remember. I said no sex.”
Winter just smiles as the car pulls off. “Uh huh.”
6
Winter
No sex. Sure.
I only said that to get her to sign the damned marriage contract. But I’ll be damned if tonight doesn’t end with me burying my cock inside her.
I knew she was beautiful, but with Ruth’s makeup and the Loro Piana dress, she looks like a movie star. None of these guys are going to have a girl like Daisy on their arm, and boy is my dad going to lose his shit.
“Let’s get a few things straight,” I tell her.
“Got some behavior rules for your wife?” she asks sarcastically. There’s never a dull or mundane moment with Daisy. Any other girl would be looking at me with obedient, wide eyes right now, not giving me a mouthful of sass.
“Straight about each other,” I correct her. “My dad will ask questions and we need to have our answers straight.”
“Smart.” Daisy nods. I frown. Was that a genuine reaction? “Seriously,” she replies, reading my expression. “It is.”
“Okay,” I reply. “Favorite movie.”
“Scream.”
Wait, what? “Seriously?”
“Yeah, why? Girls can’t like scary movies?”
“No, because Scream is my favorite movie too.”
Dramatically, Daisy raises her hand to her forehead and feigns swooning. “Oh, Winter. We’re meant to be together! Carry me across the threshold to our bedroom.”
“Okay, smartass,” I say, pulling her back into a seated position. “Favorite food.”
“Aside from ice cream?” Daisy asks. “I really like Italian food.”
“Seriously?” I ask.
“What? Stop looking at me like that!”
“Italian food is my favorite too,” I reply. “I make a mean home-made chicken Alfredo.”
“You cook?” Daisy giggles. “You’ve got a driver, a whole grounds team, a makeup/wardrobe artist, but not a private chef?”
This has to be the first real conversation I’ve had with a girl since I can remember. Normally, there’s hidden meaning behind every comment. But Daisy just comes right out and says what she means.
Yeah, there’s no way I’m letting her go after this.