Page 63 of Resist
Huh. Will she change her last name? I bet for the sake of the publishing house, she won’t. She may not even want to, either. She probably treasures her father’s last name. I swallow down the bitter taste at the back of my throat, and I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”
“Shame,” Thor replies. “I can see you two working well together.” He excuses himself and goes to the bar where Addison and Austin’s wife Mackenzie are sitting on high stools chatting.
Corabelle is holding court with Maddie and Talia, but her eyes never leave my body. I can feel her gaze scorching through my tux almost as strongly as I can feel her stress.
She’s not drinking alcohol, she’s holding the same glass of water she got when she arrived. That bastard Michael approaches her with his wife, and Maddie makes space for him to give Corabelle a hug, but she doesn’t move out of the way completely.
She knows he’s a major prick as well. I’m glad she doesn’t let him take up Corabelle’s space, but he’s insistent, he muscles his way into the group, and a twitch in my new legally married, but notreallymy wife’s face twitches as she clenches her jaw.
I may not be her real husband. But I’m real enough to have the fucking title, and he doesn’t know I’m not legit. I don’t like that he’s crowding her, getting in her face on herwedding day, and saying god knows what to her. Not on my fucking watch.
I weave my way through the crowd of people from work. If I listen hard enough I can hear the rumbling of everyone’s stomachs as I pass. Mine growls in solidarity. If the venue doesn’t get their shit together, and soon, I’m ordering fucking pizza for everyone and calling it good.
“Hey, beautiful.” I slide my arm around her waist in an act that’s quickly becoming familiar and comfortable. “I was wondering if I could steal my wife away for a moment please.” I address Michael. “I’m sure you understand.”
He purses his lips before giving a sharp nod, not that I was waiting for his permission to rescue her.
I guide my beautiful bride from the small throng of people toward a supply closet I scouted when I came here yesterday to ensure everything was going to go according to plan. Apparently I couldn’t foresee a delay in the fucking kitchen.
I hold the door open for Corabelle to enter, vaguely aware of eyes on us as we disappear from our own reception, but my fucks-to-give have gone. Groping around the wall doesn’t result in finding a light switch, and my fake wife giggles when I cuss.
“Sorry. I should have figured out where the light was.”
As soon as I finish my sentence, the light clicks on. Corabelle taunts me with a pull cord dangling from the ceiling. “Thanks for rescuing me from that fucker.” She shakes her head. “Every question he asks leads to two more, or the same questions he asked last week. It’s like he’s testing me to make sure my answers don’t change. He was one of Dad’s best friends, but right now he doesn’t feel much like Uncle Michael.”
A disgusted shudder rattles my bones, and I suppress a groan. Uncle Michael. I wonder ifUncle Michaelfollowed in the same footsteps as Old Man Blackwell.
Ugh.
“Was there a reason you escorted me into a broom closet though?”
I waggle my eyebrows. “Want to start screaming so Uncle Michael gets the impression we just can’t keep our hands off each other?”
She tips her head to the side, staring at me for a long moment before a subtle smile tugs at her lips. “On your knees.” Her voice is breathy, lust filled, and her eyes sparkle with intent.
I don’t know why she changed her mind, and right now, I don’t really care. My shoulders relax at the command, and without breaking eye contact, I shirk off my jacket and hang it on the end of a mop before I slink to the floor on my knees. She’s surrounded by an ocean of ivory lace that swishes when she puts her pointed-toed, high heeled shoe on my shoulder.
I trail my hands from her ankle to above her knee, collecting the dress as I creep higher up her leg. My breath catches when my fingers find a garter, and when I hoist the heavy material up high enough to see it, my mouth waters.
Fuck.
She’s not wearing any panties.
I drape her leg over my shoulder, she clutches the dress high enough for me to sink my face between her thighs, and I lick my lips because this is going to be fucking epic, for both of us.
She pops my nose with the tip of her well-manicured finger. “This doesn’t mean anything though, Sterling. As soon as this wedding is over, we’re keeping up appearances and no more.”
I nod, salivating, distracted and obsessed by the delicious feast that’s waiting for me when I part her labia.
If this is the last time I get to taste her, I’m going out with a bang. I’m going to make her soak the fucking floor of thesupply closet so she remembers our fake wedding day with at least one good memory.
Her cunt is tight as fuck. I work two of my thick fingers inside her taking a long, slow lick of her pussy. She tastes every bit as good as I remember. I wasn’t wrong, or romanticizing how tasty her juices are.
She’s already trickling down my throat, her muscles flickering and tensing around my fingers while her nails from one hand bite into my scalp as she grips her gorgeous gown with the other.
After a few minutes, she’s bucking her hips against my face, grinding, riding, panting and clearly chasing the release I’m determined for her to have.
Nothing else exists, just me and this woman who has gotten under my skin. This amazing woman who is quiet, strong, and so delicious I want another taste, and another.