Page 226 of Devious Lies (Cruel Crown)
And I love who she is.
I love her wild and reckless and fierce.
I love her mine.
“I thought you were done telling me what to do.” She turns to face me, nipping at my neck.
“Outside of the bedroom,” I correct.
“Outside of the bedroom,” she agrees, lips parted, two mismatched eyes darting to the entrance to confirm we’re alone.
I’m not supposed to be here, standing in front of my fiancée, making fun of her flushed skin and the orgasm I just gave her. Gideon will kill me (he can try), unless Delilah gets to me first (she would succeed).
“I’m not telling you what to do, baby. I’m stating a fact. You’re fucking happy to see me.” I flick one of her nipples through her dress and smirk. “Admit it, Little Tiger.”
She shakes her head, and I accept the challenge.
I grip her chin. Firm. Exactly how my fiancée likes it. She holds eye contact, so defiant, I want to flip her over and sink into her again. My lips dip to press kisses on her collarbone.
No matter how many times I kiss her, claim her, mark her as mine, it will never be enough. The way I crave her is insatiable. It’s proof of immortality.
I reach behind her and undo the zipper to her dress before circling around and tracing her spine with my tongue.
She spins and swats at my face. Her fingers scratch my eyes, eliciting a curse. “I just zipped that up.”
“And I need your pussy to warm my cock up.” I grab her fingers and place them on my erection over my suit slacks. “It’s so cold, I can feel my balls shriveling up.”
“They are not shriveling up.” She squeezes me once as if she can’t help herself, then nods to the center of the yurt—a fucking yurt, that’s how whipped she’s got me. “The heater is on, Nash.”
“Two logs of wood and a packet of matches from Prescott Hotels does not constitute a heater.”
She’s about to argue. She always does. I lick my lips in anticipation, loving this foreplay we share. Every word, every glance, every touch—an appetizer until the second I’m inside her.
Reed interrupts, entering the yurt without knocking. “I would have knocked, but there’s no door.”
Emery squeals at the sight of my brother, clutching onto his shoulders. “Is your mom here? I’m so glad you didn’t get lost.”
Her dress is short, a horrible idea for a wedding in Norway in the middle of September. I told her this, but what the fuck do I know? It’s forty-something degrees out, the beginning of the cold season. Chilly but manageable, especially when her nipples have been permanently hard since we set foot in Norway.
“Yeah,” Reed drawls out, nodding to me. “Everyone’s waiting on y’all to come out.”
Reed is here as Emery’s maid of honor. He’s not my biggest fan, but I’m no longer his worst enemy. We’re getting to a point where we’re content in each other’s company. Ma says we’re one step away from being brothers again. Emery acts like it’s a foregone conclusion, and maybe it is. After all, I’ve started to accept a lot of things are inevitable.
Emery squeezes Reed’s hand. “Give us five minutes.”
When he leaves, she returns to me and rubs at the lipstick stain she left on my suit. Dad’s suit. Emery tailored it for the occasion. I almost regret not stripping out of it before entering her, but fuck
it. Dad would want me happy, and I am.
Balthazar is in jail. Not some billionaire retreat with security guards for show. An actual jail, with prison bitches, yard fights once a week, and world-worn men who hate rich pricks like Sir Balty.
Cartwright is locked up in the same joint, his assets frozen and his son so broke, he has no money to send his dad for the prison dispensary. Dude can't even afford instant ramen packs. He exchanges favors to eat.
With Balthazar’s assets frozen, Virginia moved to a trailer in a small town in inland North Carolina. She still lives there, hawking anything she can from her previous life as a Winthrop. It’s not much, since I bought the Winthrop Estate and gave it back to Gideon.
“We’re getting married,” I whisper, ego brimming at the way Emery can’t help but smile every time I say it.
“Thank God.” She nudges my shoulder and bites down on her lower lip. “I was getting sick of you sliding ‘my fiancée’ into every sentence.”
