Contractually Yours: Chapter 11

This ceremony was a mistake.

I was in a better state of mind when I landed in San Francisco and made my way to the city hall. The wedding bands Lucienne sent to my office after lunch sat in my pocket. Her taste is flawless, assuming she selected them herself. The matching platinum bands are set off with three brilliant-cut diamonds of exceptional clarity. The bezel setting makes the rings perfect for everyday jewelry, discreet and classy. In addition, hers won’t compete with her engagement ring for attention.

A good sensibility is an absolute must in our line of business. Nothing’s sadder than ruining good stones and metal because somebody has the discernment of a three-year-old. Worse yet is when a customer pays good money for some hideous item.

So based on that, I presumed Lucienne—no, no, no, I’ll be damned if I call her Lucienne like a stranger when that ex-boyfriend of hers is Lucie-ing her like they still have something going on—Luce wouldn’t be as awful as Dad, even though everything out there suggests she’s the female version of Ted Lasker. Dad’s taste in jewelry runs gaudy and gaudier.

My cautiously optimistic mood was still intact when I reached the balcony and saw her standing there with her aloof, expressionless mask on. It made me think for a moment.

Wasn’t she getting exactly what she wanted by forcing me into marriage? Or was she annoyed that she’d been deprived of her first choice?

Would she have dropped the mask if it were Preston she was marrying? The notion of her pining over my worthless half-brother was annoying, but I wanted to know what she’d look like without the mask. I tried to imagine it…

Then suddenly, she smiled. I always thought she had a pretty smile, but this was nothing like what I’d seen before. It changed her entire countenance. All her defenses came down, and her eyes sparkled more brilliantly than our finest diamonds. She revealed a vulnerable side, glowing like the full moon in a midnight sky.

It pinned me to the spot, and I stared, unable to breathe. My heart knocked against my chest.

Her smile grew wider, and I started to move toward her. She spread her arms—and I picked up the pace. But then, eyes closed in bliss, she hugged this asshole like he was her damn fiancé.

What the fuck?

The aching euphoria was shattered, replaced instantly by hot ire pouring through my veins. Even when they broke the hug, the jerk kept his hands on her arms.

And she didn’t shake him off. When she noticed me, she gave me a smile, but it was nothing like the one she gave the other guy. It was the smooth, practiced one she hands out from behind her wall.

She’s never given me a true smile. And she’s never hugged me like I meant anything, even though I’m her fiancé.

I don’t know why the situation infuriated me so much. But it did.

Jason’s eyes glinted with a cool male challenge, and it was all I could do to not kick him down the stairs.

I should’ve never suggested a civil ceremony. I certainly shouldn’t have decided to have Dad attend. Or allowed Luce to select the venue.

I should’ve dictated a lavish wedding, away from San Francisco. Preferably away from Dad and Joey as well.

Most importantly, we should’ve never had some snotty Bay Area judge officiate. I could’ve asked the mayor of Los Angeles, and he would’ve been more than thrilled.

There’s no bridal bouquet, and that monstrosity Dad brought isn’t going to work. So Lucienne doesn’t have anything to hold in front of her. Then Dad had to suggest that we hold hands, because wouldn’t that be romantic?

And I agreed to it before he made any really outlandish suggestions, like having Joey lick rose petals and stick them onto our clasped hands to “seal our love.” You never know with my father.

So Luce and I end up holding hands through the short wedding. Her bare skin against my palm is warm and soft.

I tighten my hold, shooting Jason a hard stare. You can call her Lucie all you want, but at the end of the day, she’s my fiancée, soon to be my wife.

Her fingers will be gliding up my arms, my shoulders—my body. They’ll wrap around my neck for a kiss while our tongues tangle.

Jason drones on, and my senses are hyperaware—like a million needle tips are touching my skin, not enough to hurt but enough to make their presence known. Although my eyes are trained ahead, my focus is entirely on her. Every inhalation, every tiny movement of her pink lips…

Jason has said something and is looking at me expectantly. So I give the obligatory “I do.”

The bastard turns to Lucienne, his expression brighter. I didn’t like him when I first laid eyes on him, and I like him even less now. Her friend, indeed.

Luce takes her vows and becomes the newly minted Mrs. Sebastian Lasker. Jason smiles beatifically, like a respectable pillar of our judicial system, but I know the pervert is stripping her out of her modest white dress in his head.

The dress really is stunning, making her look tall and regal. It shows off the lovely lines of her straight shoulders, long, elegant arms and perfect breasts. The dip of her waist and the firm curve of her ass. The dress covers her from the neck down, its long sleeves reaching below her wrists to hide half the backs of her hands. She looks like the most beautiful gift, and as her husband, I’m the one—the only one—who gets to unwrap her.

I take out the rings and slide one onto her finger. The sight of the wedding band against her skin sends something satisfying unfurling in my gut. The weight of Jason’s gaze rests on me, and I shoot him a hard smile.

Look all you want. She’s mine now.

“You may now kiss,” Jason says.

I cradle her cheek, turning her toward me. Her skin is warm and smooth against my palm. My pulse accelerates. Our eyes meet, and her lips part. Her lashes flutter—not in a calculated move to seduce but in a nervous gesture. I can’t decide how I feel about her anxiety. I want her to suffer, but at the same time, I want to shield her. The contradictory desires are annoying.

Whatever. I dip my head and claim her mouth in our first kiss as husband and wife. My tongue slips between her lips, delving into the sweet heat. Although there’s a ring on her finger, the need to stamp her as mine rears its head, and—

“Way to go, son! I’m so proud of you!”

I flinch. Luce turns away, breaking the contact.

God damn it. I give my father a glare scorching enough to melt metal, but he just grins like some cocaine-addled idiot.

And Luce still hasn’t given me the smile she did Jason, even as I sign the document declaring her in charge of her own finances and legal affairs, as specified in the contract between our families. When she finally beams, it’s at herself, for her newly won freedom.

I might as well have been an inanimate prop.

Still, I’m happy that I’ve helped her achieve true independence. You can’t fully exercise your agency if somebody else controls your money. And I have a particular distaste for a system that’s set up to restrict people based on an immutable characteristic like gender.

We go to a steakhouse because Dad insists that we have dinner together.

“It’s the least I can do for you and your lovely new wife. Lucy.” He looks at her like she’s his next Oscar-winning masterpiece. And she nods, as if she’d like nothing better than to spend more time with him.

I’m going to throw up.

Jason is at the table, too, because Luce’s decided he deserved to be here for officiating, even though I told him rather pointedly that we’d hate to take more of his time.

Obtuse bastard.

I nurse my whiskey. She laughs at every godawful story pouring out of my dad’s mouth. Maybe he should start a new career as a standup comic. Meanwhile, Jason is ultra-attentive, pulling the bread basket closer to her, pouring her more wine. She thanks him and smiles at him too.

Fucking former prom king and queen.

Let’s grade her smiles like a diamond’s clarity. The ones she gives Jason are Flawless, while the ones she directs at Dad are Internally Flawless, mainly because he says things that are outright embarrassing. But the one she shoots me every time our gazes happen to meet?

Her face freezes for a fraction of a second before she pulls the corners of her mouth up. I can’t even rate that kind of rictus an I3, which is given to the shittiest gems. Actually, what she gives me isn’t even a diamond. It’s a pebble. Some worthless, random bit of stone you can find anywhere.

I knock back my sixth whiskey. Just look at her giggling at whatever it was that Jason said, her cheeks flushed. Her eyes skitter past me, and suddenly I’ve had enough of this bullshit. I’m her husband.

“We need to get going,” I say.

“No, we don’t,” Dad says.

“‘We’ doesn’t include you. Luce and me. Us. We have a flight to catch.” I turn to Luce. “Don’t we, wife?”

Jason’s smile dims, and Luce gives me an uncertain look. “Right now?”

“Uh-huh. Did you forget?”

“Nonsense,” Dad says, oblivious to anyone’s needs except his own. “I brought my own jet. We can fly together.”

I’d rather cut off my arms and swim across a shark-infested ocean. “So did I. And unlike you, I have work tomorrow and a routine that I stick to.”

“My God, live a little.” Dad picks up his wine glass. “You talk like you’re in your sixties.”

Being around him is what’s aging me, but I keep that to myself. I don’t want to have a pointless argument he’s going to refuse to admit he lost.

Since Dad is the one who insisted on this dinner, I let him handle the bill while I take Luce’s hand. “Good night, everyone,” I say. Hope to never see any of you ever again.

Luce and I climb into the limo waiting outside. The partition between us and the chauffeur is up for privacy.

She lets out a satisfied sigh and looks out at the sky. “It was a great ceremony, don’t you think?” she says, finally turning her focus on me.

“Fantastic.”

“It was really good to see Jason again.”

There she goes. Confirming what I already know. Did she fuck him? Well, obviously she did in high school. Bet he sucked. She didn’t ask him to marry her, did she? Couldn’t have, because there’s no way he would’ve turned her down.

Don’t be so smug. You aren’t that much better. She wanted to marry Preston, remember?

The thought makes me want to kick Preston’s ass.

“And to meet your father,” she adds. “He seems so nice. I like him.”

This is starting to feel like something out of Kafka. None of my brothers’ wives like Dad. Aspen actually left a restaurant before her meal was served because she couldn’t stand him.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Luce says.

“Like what?”

“Like I just told you I have syphilis.”

“Do you?” Should’ve checked before I married her. Given her wild history, who knows what she’s carrying?

“No!” She huffs. “It was a figure of speech. Not a very good one, obviously, but I’m a little worn out after all the excitement. And why are you so grouchy? Everything went well.”

“I’m not grouchy. I’m thinking.” I’ll be damned if I tell her how much her interaction with Jason bothered me.

Besides, this marriage isn’t about me not being her first choice or her blatant smile discrimination. It can’t be. It’s about her cornering me into a position I never wanted. Frankly, if she hadn’t forced me, I wouldn’t be plagued with this uncomfortable feeling—like the burning sensation you get in the gut after eating a bunch of raw jalapeños.

Low-grade resentment starts to simmer.

“Okay, then,” she says skeptically. “Do you want to move in tonight?”

I shrug. “Why not?”

“I’ll have Matthias ready the second suite, then. I’ll set up a home office for you as well, since you’re keen on having your own space.”

Matthias? “Who’s that?” Her live-in pool boy? Some rent-a-gigolo?

“My butler.” Her guard is fully up. “You can bring someone, too, if you want, but Matthias stays. He’s been with me since I was a kid.”

“I don’t have anybody to bring,” I say. “I’m at the Aylster Residence, remember?”

Her mouth forms an O.

Guess she forgot in her excitement over seeing Jason and my dad. I stretch my legs out, wishing I could kick both of them. “How airtight is your NDA?”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t want your butler telling everyone we have separate bedrooms.”

“Don’t worry, he’s discreet. And yes, he signed an NDA.” She shifts until she’s sitting with her back straight with her hands folded in her lap, like a proper lady.

It’s cute. And oddly sexy—it makes me want to muss her up until she’s no longer seated so respectably.

Her skirt pushed up to her waist, her legs spread and her hair messy and falling around her lust-flushed face. That’s how I want her.

“And if he wants to know why we’re using separate bedrooms,” she continues, “we’ll just tell him you snore.”

I bark out a laugh. “I do not snore.”

She pulls her lips in for a second, then finally sighs. “Fine. I’ll be the one who snores, if it’ll spare your dignity.”

“Are you loud? Or do you sound like a little puppy?” I ask, hoping to crack her composure.

“Neither. I don’t snore,” she responds primly.

Then I recall how she reacted when I asked about sex. “What if you need to scratch the itch? Are you going to sneak into my room at night? Or ask me to sneak into yours?”

“No sneaking around will be required.” Her pose couldn’t grow more rigid. “I’ll deal with my itches my own way.”

Images of the men she’s been involved with flash by in a maddening slideshow. Even if only half the sex scandals are true, she’s slept with most of the male population of L.A., all of whom would undoubtedly want to do it again. “My wife will not turn to other men.”

Her mouth tightens. “I said I’ll deal with it. These days there are plenty of mechanical options. Your services will not be required.”

“And what if I need to scratch the itch?”

Her gaze makes a quick circuit, roaming over me from eyes to mouth to crotch and back. In the dim light, I can see her throat move. “You’re free to do whatever you please, so long as you’re discreet.” Her tone is tart, almost dismissive.

Would she have said that if Jason were sitting here?

The unbidden question slices through my head, bringing the unpleasant burning feeling back to my gut. “If you got on your knees, I might not turn to other women.”

She laughs, the sound a little resigned. “Sebastian, I don’t expect anything more than what you’ve already done.” Her tone says expecting more would be an exercise in futility.

She expects me to cheat on her.

And not just cheat on her, but not even be a minimally decent husband. All she wanted from me was that damned “I do” and a signature on the document she needs to send to Nesovia.

The realization is insulting and infuriating. I hate her for sitting next to me like a princess while she expects me to behave like some lowlife. She’s acting like I’m the one who forced this union on her, when in fact it’s exactly the opposite.

An abrupt need to shatter her composure surges inside me. If I can’t get a Flawless smile, I’ll get the next best thing. “I take my wedding vows seriously. And I won’t be going to other women when I can have you.”

Before she can respond, I crash my mouth down on hers, claiming her in an openly carnal kiss. She lets out a muffled gasp, but I don’t care as my tongue glides in. I devour her, ravishing her mouth like I own it.

Her breathing goes erratic. She slides her hand up, along my arm and shoulder. Then her fingers are plunging into my hair, holding me close.

Yes.

I run my hand along the lush lines of the body I’ve been dying to possess since I saw her on the balcony. Her fingers dig into my shoulders, hard enough that there will be marks tomorrow. The minor pain only fuels my excitement.

I can’t find the zipper on this damn dress. I grab the material to rip it, but she lays a hand over mine and pulls back.

“Wait. I have nothing else to wear,” she says hurriedly, her voice raw but thready.

No other man gets to see what’s mine.

I retake her mouth, my hand on her breast. It’s soft and warm, even through the silky dress, and she whimpers, her head thrown back. I shower kisses on her neck, feeling her pulse beneath my lips. She smells so good, all aroused female. I nip her neck, and she lets out a moan, her body shaking.

Her legs move restlessly. I pull her onto my lap, pushing her dress up until it’s bunched around her waist, and touch her between her thighs. She’s shockingly hot; what little blood I have left in my head drains to my already turgid cock.

I watch the pleasure I’m giving her slowly twist her face. She doesn’t seem like a lady anymore, but a corrupt goddess of desire. I run my other palm along her smooth, soft thigh and cup her ass. She grinds against me through our clothes. It’s a kind of torture, but I don’t give her what she needs even as I push her closer to the edge.

“Please,” she whimpers finally.

“Tell me what you want from your husband,” I say, “wife.”

Her breath catches in her throat. Her eyes glitter with need, but she seems torn for some reason.

I trace the V-shaped crease between her belly and thighs, up above her pubic bones, back down over her thin panties. Air shudders in her lungs.

“Do you want to fly wet and horny like this all the way to L.A. until you can grab one of your vibrators?”

“I…”

I pull her close until her chest is flush against mine. I can feel her heart pounding. “Or I can finger-fuck you,” I whisper into her ear, then feel another wave of tremors rack her body. I slide my index finger back between her legs, over the damp fabric of her underwear. Her pelvis moves—she’s desperate for more.

“Please. Finger me,” she begs, her hot breath tickling my cheek.

Dark satisfaction settles over me. “Good choice, wife.”

I pull the thin fabric out of the way and touch her directly. Her flesh is searing hot and slick with need. I gently thumb her clit while my other fingers tease her further down. Her arms tighten, and she grinds against me, chasing her climax.

“I need more,” she whispers. When I continue to tease without entering, she says, “Put your fingers inside me.”

“Like this?” I slide two in effortlessly.

“Yes!” she hisses, moving her hips along my fingers.

I grip her hair and angle her face for a kiss. Then I let her ride my fingers until she climaxes over and over again, her pussy convulsing around me.

My cock is impossibly hard now. The need to drive into her is overwhelming, but I don’t have a condom on me, and I doubt she does, either.

Impatience mounting, I use my free hand to undo my belt, rip at my pants and underwear and pull out my aching cock. Still moving against my palm and fingers, she reaches down and wraps her hand around the shaft. Jesus. The firm grip makes my cock tingle, igniting electric sparks along my back. She pumps her fist gently.

I claim her mouth again, thrusting inside with my tongue, and move my pelvis against her. My penis is happy to be imprisoned in the tight sheath of her hand.

I’m thirty-four, for God’s sake. But her touch, the warm female scent of her and the shaky sound of her breathing are all driving me insane.

She lets out a soft sound as she shudders one more time, and I let go and come into her hand. The pressure that’s been plaguing me since I walked into the city hall eases, and normally I would regain my composure, but no. I want more. I want to push into her, feel her convulse around me as her arms are looped around my neck, clinging, as her legs clasp me, taut and quivering, as my name falls from her lips in an endless scream.

My sane side tells me to get a grip. Going all the way right now would mean a possible pregnancy, and that can’t happen.

Luce rests her head on my shoulder as her breathing settles. The limo has been stopped for a while now, but the chauffeur waits in silence.

“Time to go,” I say.

She nods. I grab a fistful of Kleenex and dry her tenderly, although part of me wonders what the point is, since her underwear is soaked. But I want to clean her up. She’s my wife, and I don’t want her out in public in a disheveled state. I wipe the cum off her hand, then her dress and my shirt and tie. There’s a lot of mess, and I tidy both of us as much as possible, then signal the chauffeur that we’re ready.

He opens the door. I exit and extend a hand, which Luce grasps as she steps out. Searing satisfaction burns through me at her unsteady walk. Her cheeks are rosy, her artic-blue eyes glazed with the orgasms I gave her. Her lips are swollen and red, and everyone can see what we’ve been up to.

Except I don’t want anybody to see her pleasure-softened expression. That’s reserved only for me—her husband. Several men look at her covetously, like dogs would a piece of meat.

I put my arm under her knees and scoop her up, positioning her so her head rests against my shoulder. She buries her face, and her fingers squirm against my chest, betraying her unease.

But what could she possibly be anxious about? She has what she wants. If she’s embarrassed about what we did in the limo…well, it’s too late now.

I carry her through the terminal. The one reserved for private jets isn’t as crowded as the main one, but SFO is still a busy airport.

“Aren’t I too heavy?” she asks, the words tentative and muffled.

That was what was making her nervous? I seriously wish I could peer inside her head. “Valkyrie, you could quadruple in size and you still wouldn’t be too heavy.”

She doesn’t respond. But her fingers stop moving. If she says anything, I don’t hear her over the voices of the crew wanting to confirm the flight’s final details. As more people move around us, Luce grows tense in my arms.

The irritating, frustrating wall is back in place. Part of me wants to smash it right now, but the cool air out in the hangar wipes away the whiskey haze in my head. I’ve already given in to impulse with her.

I look down at the woman in my arms—my wife. The need to coddle her and the need to even our scales wage a battle.

Neither comes out a clear winner even after we arrive back in L.A.