An Improper Deal (Elliot & Annabelle #1) (Billionaires' Brides of Convenience Book 3) (15 page)

I smile. “It
is
a nice pla—”

“And Elliot said I can go shopping for some new things tomorrow if I want.
If I want
…as if!” She giggles.

It’s good to see her acting her age, but why is Elliot doing all this? I was planning to use my clothes allowance on Nonny. She isn’t his concern, and all this is above and beyond what we agreed to. In my experience, people don’t act kindly toward you for no reason. Everything comes with a price tag.

“Have you seen Elliot?” I ask.

“Uh-huh. He’s in the master suite.” She points her finger behind me at a winding staircase and raises her eyebrows. “The
master suite
. Isn’t that just too cool?”

That explains why the room I was in earlier lacked clothes, but I’m not certain if he means to have us sleep separately. I frown. The possibility never crossed my mind. Actually, a lot of how this fake marriage is going to work has probably never crossed my mind. I’ve been too busy trying to get through each day without driving myself insane with
what if
s.

I go upstairs. The steps are some kind of lightly frosted, glasslike material, but they aren’t slippery. The late afternoon light pours in through a skylight above, turning everything golden.

There is an arched hall that appears to go straight to a rooftop terrace, and double doors that probably lead to the actual master suite.

I knock, then stick my head in when I don’t hear any response. This suite is even bigger than the one I was in before, but there’s nothing gender neutral about it. It’s stark, cool and masculine with just the right display of wealth to give it an air of understated moneyed elegance. The snowy sheets and covers on the king-size bed contrast sharply against a frame carved out of dark wood—probably teak. The floor is made of the same kind of wood, covered with an aged patina that doesn’t have a single scratch. A wet bar occupies one corner, and a decanter on the counter contains amber-colored liquor. There aren’t any paintings or prints on the walls. Instead it has a huge floor-to-ceiling window that faces the city. Bright red brake lights illuminate the roads like Christmas.

The walk-in closet is huge—bigger than my old bedroom. It’s neatly divided in half, the left section for his things, and the right for mine. The boxes from yesterday are gone, and my new outfits hang, sorted by length, then color. The new shoes fill square wooden compartments. There are two dressers in the center, back to back and forming an island, that have a pair of boxes on top. One contains cufflinks and the other some feminine jewelry. The drawers facing left are filled with female underwear in my size.

None of my old things are here. They would’ve looked out of place in a home that’s obviously worth tens of millions of dollars.

I take a green ankle-length silk robe and go into the bathroom. It’s all various shades of white with a little chrome. Cream-colored tiles cover the floor, and I realize after a moment that they’re heated. Even the walls are off-white, like something out of a model home. Two joined sections of the walls are made of frosted glass, letting the outside light in without compromising privacy. The toiletries make it clear which side of the double vanity is mine. All the feminine products are high-end luxury items, not my usual drugstore stuff. The multi-head shower is encased in clear glass, and the tub is big enough to fit at least three full-grown adults. A chrome rack built into the floor between the tub and the shower door has four ivory towels on it.

I look at myself in the mirror. Despite the lunch and nap, I’m pale. I frown. Maybe it’s all the whiteness in here that’s making me look so ghostly.

I strip down and shower. The hot water sluices down my body, clearing my head. I get rid of all my makeup and what little styling product is in my hair. Elliot will undoubtedly want sex before the day’s over.

You’re married now
.
Of course he wants it
.

Except I feel more like I’ve been bought than married. I wish I could talk to Traci. She’s one of the girls who told me all about the wonders of mind-blowing sex. She would know how I should prepare myself. Just the idea of sex with Elliot is sending nervous jitters through my system even as excitement floods through me. But how could I explain the contradiction?

Finally I cut the water and wrap myself in a thick towel. It’s warm from the rack. I almost slip when I spot Elliot. He’s in a semi-casual V-neck gray shirt and black slacks. Slightly damp hair says he’s also washed recently. Leaning against the edge of the double vanity with his hands resting on the marble counter, he watches me with hooded eyes. But the stark desire in his gaze is unmistakable.

Heat rises to my skin like bubbles, and I clutch the towel tighter. His lips tilt into a cockeyed grin, and my stomach flips, my mouth drying up. Is this it? My heart starts to pound, knocking erratically against my chest until it almost hurts.

He pushes himself up, then grabs a fresh towel and comes over to stand in front of me. Very carefully, he dries my wet hair. He smells amazing this close—fresh soap and tantalizing warm male flesh. His strong fingers massage my scalp as he moves the towel over my locks.

“You are remarkably beautiful.”

The soft rasp of his smoky voice turns my knees weak. Heat pools between my legs, pulsing gently. The unfamiliar feel of the wedding band on my ring finger says to give in. He is my husband after all. There’s nothing wrong with having sex with one’s spouse.

I take a step forward. His thick erection prods against my belly. I lick my lips, tongue barely coming out of my mouth, and he watches like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

His breathing roughens and he drops the towel. “Put on the robe and come to the terrace,” he says, a flush in his cheeks. His words are even, but the heat in his eyes is searing. “The double doors at the end of the hall.”

I nod wordlessly, then watch him leave. Even if I wanted to, I don’t think I’d be able to follow him immediately. Not when my legs feel like so much wet paper maché.

I drag the towel over my body, then put some lotion on my skin, enjoying the light peach scent. Whoever selected this stuff did a good job.

I put on a pale pink lip gloss and shrug into the robe, then walk out to the terrace, my bare feet padding on the cool wooden floor. The view is spectacular—so much open space. The city is literally at my feet. An infinity pool reflects the orange and purple saturating the sky, and I spread my arms. My chest seems to open, and I feel so free.

“Enjoying the view?” Elliot asks from behind me.

“Yes.” I turn around. “It’s stunning. I don’t think I’ll ever want to leave here.”

He smiles, then links my hand in his. “This way.” He tugs me toward an intimate dinner for two set up between the pool and the glass railing.

A thick, white tablecloth covers the square table. The centerpiece features lavender hydrangea and pale pink roses, quite romantic and quite bridal. Three separate platters covered with silver domes sit around the flowers. A bowl of salad and another bowl with cubed melon and berries complete the dinner offering.

A bottle of Dom sits in a silver ice bucket. I give a small frown at the sight. The notion that Elliot would want champagne for our wedding dinner never crossed my mind. I didn’t expect he would want to toast to our one-year marriage.

He pulls out a chair for me. I sit down, and he takes the remaining chair to my right. “We don’t have a server,” he explains. “Hence everything being out at once. Thought it might be more comfortable this way.”

“This is fine,” I say, unsure exactly how to respond.

When my parents had money, we went out to fancy restaurants from time to time, but being served was always a treat. Affluence settled uncomfortably on them, like they were wearing clothes cut a little too loose in one place and a little too tight in another.

With Elliot it’s different. He expects to be catered to, expects people to anticipate his needs even before he voices them. And it’s obvious that he finds that to be the normal state of affairs.

He unveils the platters. Thinly sliced beef with a horseradish dip, prosciutto, crisp toasted bread slices, various cheeses and miniature desserts occupy the platters by theme, each of them like little gourmet islands. He uncorks the champagne with a soft pop. Whitish mist comes out of the chilled bottle, reminding me for some reason of fog on a lake. He pours two flutes with a dexterity that could put the waiters at La Mer to shame, then hands me a bubbling glass.

“Sorry, but I don’t drink.”

“Not even on your wedding night?”

I shake my head. “Not for anything.”

A speculative look crosses his face. “Religious?”

“Nope. Just not into alcohol.” I give him a thin-lipped smile. My reasons are not up for discussion. Nobody knows, not even Traci. It’s my secret, something not even the best detective could dig up.

“Well then.” He places both flutes in front of him. “What would you like?”

“Water would be good.”

He gets up wordlessly and disappears into the suite. It doesn’t take long before he returns with two bottles of water. Condensation fogs the surface. He places them on my side along with a tall glass.

Before I can reach for the bottle, he twists the cap and pours me my drink. His movements are efficient but also elegant. Once he’s done, he lifts his champagne. I clink my water with the bubbly wine.

“To our one year,” I murmur.

“To the coming year,” he agrees.

I take a sip. He watches me over the rim of his flute, his strong throat working as he swallows. Despite the chilled water flooding my mouth, warmth suffuses my face. His gaze skims my cheeks, and I feel it like a physical touch. His pupils are wide, but not from the dimming outside light. The pulse at his neck accelerates.

His tongue darts out and licks the droplets of champagne from his lips. My gaze drops to them, and the memory of how they feel against my bare skin floods me. Need uncurls in my belly, making it harder for me to drag in air. I can’t think of a time when I was this hyperaware.

“Beef?” he rasps.

I tear my gaze from him and look at the tiny cluster of fresh spouts wrapped with the slice of beef on the end of his fork. I don’t want to take it. It seems too intimate somehow, beyond what’s in our agreement. At the same time there’s no graceful way to refuse. I lean forward and take it into my mouth.

It’s cold…and exceptionally good. The beef is tender and flavorful, and the crispy texture of the sprouts complements the meat. I don’t think I’ve ever had anything this good before.

I devour the food with delicate greed. I’ve always loved eating, and I’m not going to demur. Elliot periodically puts more morsels on my plate. Given the care and attention he’s giving me, I can almost believe we’re having a normal, “married couple” dinner, not some kind of transaction.

He is nearly finished with the bottle of champagne. I surreptitiously watch for any signs of drunkenness, but he seems fine…so far. He sets a bite-sized chocolate mousse with golden foil around the bottom on the tip of his long, thick index finger and offers it to me. I eye it, wondering how I’m going to get the foil off without making a mess.

“Take the whole thing,” he says.

“Even the gold?”

“Yes. That’s the point.”

I’m skeptical, but I reach for it.

“Take it with your mouth,” he says.

My heart stutters, and my face gets hot. If taking food from his fork was bad…

His mouth quirks in amusement. “My finger’s clean.”

I press my lips together, then lean forward. My mouth closes around the dessert, and the sweet, decadent flavor explodes in my mouth, the chocolate strong and rich. I love chocolate, and I don’t ever remember having anything this good. There is a slight hint of something fiery and light underneath. I savor the complex contrast of taste and can’t help but lick the rest from the tip of his finger with a single, firm stroke. But it’s my clit pulsing like he’s stroked me down there.

“Wow. That’s amazing,” I whisper. “You should try it.”

“So give me one.”

My upper teeth dig into my lip. Desire pools between my legs. I know exactly what he wants, and inexplicably enough I can’t say no. I pick another chocolate up from the platter, but my hand is clumsy, and I smear some on my thumb.

He doesn’t seem to mind. His warm breath fans my skin, and he takes the chocolate…then he pulls my finger into his mouth. His tongue glides over my skin, and sharp awareness prickles over me. I shiver, feeling the heavy throbbing of my pulse at my wrist.

“Mmm,” he says, letting my finger go with a soft pop.

Chocolate streaks his lower lip. I reach over to wipe it with my hand, but he takes my wrist—gently—and pulls me onto his lap instead. He adjusts me until I’m straddling him, my slick heat pressed against his erection. My inner muscles clench, and I feel a keen aching emptiness. My entire body is throbbing, and I moan softly.

“Use your mouth,” he orders.

I cradle his cheek in my hand and lick the chocolate from his lip with just the tip of my tongue. His hands flex around my hips, and he breathes out roughly. The surprisingly plump and soft texture of his lip and his sinful taste mixed with heady sweetness is too much. I squirm on his lap, trying to relieve the tension. I’m almost scared that I won’t experience another mind-bending orgasm like he gave me before…and then scared that I will.

He leans toward me, capturing my mouth with his. He strokes me, his movements hard and possessive. I melt into him, into a kiss that seems to steal all my breath. Every caress pushes me higher, the fire in my blood heating until I feel like I’m going to combust. My thoughts scatter like a handful of marbles that have been dropped on the floor. I tunnel my fingers into his hair, pulling him closer. If this is drowning, I don’t ever want to resurface.

He slips a hand into the gap of my gown and gently squeezes my breast. The touch is electric, pleasure jolting through my body like lightning. I arch into him, and he rubs his fingers against the tight peak.

Mad pleasure streaks through me, and my toes curl. I want this so badly—the pleasure more intense than anything I’ve ever experienced before except for the orgasm he gave me at La Mer. His pants are damp with my juices and his heat.