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He drives into me again and again. Whoever said men moaning isn’t hot didn’t know what the hell they were talking about, because every time a new breathless snarl passes Ivan’s lips, I get another notch closer to exploding.
“Come for me,” he commands. “Let go.”
That’s all it takes—another orgasm tears through me. Ivan’s hand is still over my mouth. I bite down on his skin to stop from crying out.
“You’re so fucking tight,”
Then Ivan comes, too. He pulses into me, spilling his own pleasure until we’re both panting and limp on the side of his house.
“Fuck this party. Let’s go to my room and see if you can scream any louder than that.”
“You have guests,”
“I don’t care about my guests, Francia,” he says simply. “I’m more interested in you.”
“Go appease them. I’ll meet up with you later.”
“Don’t you dare run off on me.”
“I won’t,” I lie. I point down to the high heels I’m still wearing. “I’m not wearing the right shoes to flee, remember?”
His eyes trace over my body as he takes a ste...
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“Everyone can be replaced.”
Our moment will forever remain private.
No one can hide from me.
“It’s not that they have money. It’s that none of them know what it’s like to work for it. They look down on people who don’t have money and they think they should be in charge of them just because they were born with a perfect credit score and a trust fund.”
“Sorry, babe. But I’ve been working for as long as I can remember. If a man with deep pockets wants to take me away from all of this gum scraping, then I’ll gladly let him.”
“You want to be dependent...
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“If it means I can finally breathe...
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“In a perfect world, customers wouldn’t yell at anyone.
“Good morning, solnishka,” Ivan Pushkin says. “Did you miss me?”
Ivan Pushkin always gets what he wants. And right now, for whatever reason, he wants me.
“Actually, I believe you’ll be the ball and chain.”
“What are you talking about? What does that mean?”
Choices and consequences. Consequences and choices. I’m making a choice. I’m more than ready to suffer whatever follows.
“It means you and I are getting married.”
“I want to keep you alive. I want to keep you breathing.”
Life isn’t a fairytale. Every good thing comes at a price.
“I have no clue what to do with you,”
Fake or not, I must be out of my fucking mind to think this was the best course of action. I don’t know how to be married. I don’t want to be married. Yet… I look over at Cora—my fake wife. Her dark hair is painted mahogany in the light streaming through the window, her pale skin dappled in mid-morning sun. Being with her feels more right than it should. Especially since I still don’t know why she was at my party or in my office. She looks so vulnerable. The disdain she’s worn since she learned my name is gone in sleep. She looks younger. Innocent. But no matter whether Cora is innocent in all
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“I don’t want anyone to lay a fucking finger on her, understood? No one touches my woman but me.”
if people are going to buy that Ivan Pushkin is getting married, I have to sell it. To everyone. Myself most of all.
Whatever she asks for, she gets. No questions asked.”
She’ll look made for me.
“I can see the two of you working well together.”
“You must have missed when she insinuated she’d rather chew off her own leg than marry me.”
“And you must have missed when you went all caveman on that sniper for...
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“It might be easier to just put a dog collar on her and leash her up. Keep her close to you so you can make sure she’s being a good girl.”
“I don’t need a collar for any of that,” I tell him. “That’s what the wedding ring is for.”
Whoever he chooses to have kids with, God help her. That’s all I have to say.
Lying is hard work.
One day, I’m going to sit down and tell Jorden everything. The truth.
She smells like…like me, actually. Like sandalwood.
It sparks some possessive part deep inside of me. She is mine.
“Cora, you and I are going to get along famously.”
“He may not like to show it, but Ivan is a champion of love.”
“First rule of surviving in our world, Cora: don’t trust anyone.”
Which is precisely the title of this chapter of my memoir, for sure. What the Fuck Is Going On?: Why you shouldn’t hook up with billionaires at an arranged marriage party. By Cora St. Clair.
Ignorance is bliss.
“He’s the type who can marry whoever he wants. But I guess it took a special kind of woman to make him settle down.”
