Pretty Prize (Rags to Riches 2)
“You may kiss the bride,” he hurriedly orders.
I expect Rose to run away, I even tighten my grip to keep her in place, but instead of fleeing, she steps toward me and lifts her pert chin in defiance. Her eyes gleam with pride. I can take her name, I can take her body, but her soul remains hers.
I cup that stubborn chin and tilt her head back even more. “I will own you, my girl. Just you wait.”
Her nose flares. “Maybe I’ll own you.”
She couldn’t have said anything else to make me want her more. My mouth crashes down on hers. Her response takes me by surprise. She doesn’t stand passively under my assault. Her tongue darts out, sweeping across my lower lip and then diving in to tangle with mine.
She’s trying to claim me, assert dominance over me, draw battle lines. My knees nearly buckle at the erotic pleasure. I curl my tongue around hers, welcoming her advances. She freezes with shock. Perhaps she thought I would be angered or unhappy, which goes to show her inexperience. A fight is only satisfying when the opponent is an equal.
I plunge my tongue inside, fucking her mouth, cradling her head in my hands, eating all her surprise, her hesitation, her burgeoning lust until my being is full of her. Her hands tighten around my forearms, not pulling me away, but hanging on as if she’s being swept away by a roaring wave and I’m the only beacon of safety. But I’m not steady either. Her passionate response, her stubborn independence, her delectable submission are all so unexpected. I don’t know what to make of her, but I want her. I want her in a way that I hadn’t thought I could want someone. I want her in a way that makes me weak and strong at the same time.
If not for the judge’s discreet throat clearing, the kiss might’ve lasted for hours. It might have led to her dress on the floor and her heels in the air. It might’ve resulted in Chris ordering me a new desk due to the damage Rose and I would’ve inflicted on it.
“The car is here, sir,” Chris murmurs.
I draw away slowly and reluctantly. My cock is tenting my pants and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.
“Please see the judge home safely,” I say coolly, as if I’m not sporting a giant erection. The only sign that Rose is affected is the color on her face and the slight wobble as she walks on those stilettos.
“Shall we go?” I gesture for Rose to go ahead of me.
“Where are we going? To your house?”
“No, my dear. We’re on our honeymoon now. We’re going to Rome.”
She stumbles but I’m there to steady her as I will be for the rest of her life.
“R-Rome? I don’t even have a passport. I’ve never been to Rome.”
The girl hasn’t even been out of New York, but I keep that to myself.
“Yes. Don’t worry. Your papers are all in order.” Garrick brought all of her legal documents to me. While we are gone, Chris will do the hard work of converting everything in Rose’s name to mine. When we return from Rome, the Vandermeer name will cease to exist for her. And, in short time, the name will be eradicated entirely because the life raft I’ve tossed to her brother can be pulled out from under him at any moment.
“Rome,” she whispers to herself. “I get to go to Rome.”
I may have found the perfect partner in Rose but that doesn’t mean my need for vengeance is sated. On the contrary, I feel it imperative to repay him not only for my wounds but for hers as well.
I tuck her small hand in the crook of my arm. “Marriage to me isn’t a prison, Rose. It’s a reward.”
Chapter 8
Rose
If he keeps kissing me like that maybe this marriage will be a reward. My mind keeps playing the kiss over and over again as we sit in the back of the town car on the way to the airport. My mouth still tingles from his kiss. So do other places, for that matter. I keep my legs tightly together trying to get the tingling throb between them under control. It doesn’t help that Hunter has me tucked right into his side. His hand rests on my shoulder in a possessive hold. Every so often he strokes my skin as he plays with the small hairs that have escaped my clip before gripping my shoulder again. I’d almost swear he’s having an inner war between keeping a tight hold on me or stroking me softly. I can see he wants me but he’s not sure how he wants to handle me.
“We’re here, my wife.” The way he says ‘wife’ is as possessive as the hold he has on me. The car door opens and he helps me out, still keeping me snug to him. I should hate the way he keeps me close but it’s so different than I’m used to. I’m enjoying his touch. I’ve been starved for male human contact for so long. That must be why my body continues to press itself into him every chance it gets.