Fake Empire (Kensingtons Book 1)

Scarlett does not like being surprised. I knew that before I set this plan into motion, and my ears are still ringing with her questions when we land in Italy. Her tone grows more and more annoyed with each vague response.

Where are we going? “You’ll see.”

How long are we staying? “Not sure.”

My personal favorite, which I don’t bother answering: Will there be WiFi?

I know she feels badly about what went down in Paris that first day. Telling me she didn’t want me there, pouting while Jacques hit on me. She’s too stubborn and prideful to actually apologize, but she agreed to extend our trip past the few days it was originally supposed to last. I lied and told her I needed to take a meeting on behalf of Kensington Consolidated, and it made more sense for me to cross the French-Italian border than put someone else on a plane from New York to Florence. After four days of avoidance and silence, I think she was just shocked I asked.

Maybe it’s hypocritical of me, expecting honesty from her while I make up meetings. But the difference is I’m lying to keep her close. Scarlett lies to push me away. And, call me insane, but I keep trying over and over again.

I’m as stubborn as she is. Having my wife ignore me isn’t just a point of pride. Scarlett fascinates me. Her beauty is captivating, but she is enthralling. I want more than a superficial relationship with her. More than a physical one, although my body wouldn’t completely agree.

I want to know why she’s a multi-billionaire working hours like she’s struggling to pay rent. I want to know whether her relationship with her parents was ever different than it is now, if their unhappiness bled into her—and now into us. I want to know why she agreed to marry me when she seems intent on ignoring her father’s wishes and is hostile toward commitment.

After she asks about the WiFi, I stop answering her questions, which only annoys her more. She’s still grumbling as she follows me off the jet and toward the waiting car.

The late-afternoon air is warmer and drier than it was when we left France. Dapples of golden light filter down from the blue sky, bathing the tarmac and the distant buildings that make up the airport with a subtle glow.

I exchange pleasantries with the driver before sliding into the air-conditioned car. He finishes loading our luggage into the trunk, and then we’re pulling away from the airport and turning onto a busy road.

“You speak Italian?” Scarlett sounds surprised.

“Some.” I ask her where the nearest train station is.

She appears impressed, telling me she doesn’t speak any Italian.

I catch our driver smiling in the rearview mirror as traffic thins and we coast along the road connecting the port city of Salerno and clifftop Sorrento before we enter Amalfi. The car winds past scenic views of terraced vineyards and cliffside lemon groves.

The villa is one of the few international properties my family owns that I ever bother staying at. When we pull up out front, I’m reminded why. It used to be an old rope factory producing fishing nets. The workers undoubtedly enjoyed the same view of aquamarine waves dotted with boats with a shoreline framed by the colorful houses staggered on the cliffs, looking as precarious as Jenga blocks. Years of renovations and wealthy owners have made the house unrecognizable from its humble beginnings. The majolica cladding was custom designed for this property alone.

Scarlett walks across the terracotta floors toward the terrace. She says nothing, which is a first. I’ve brought other women here before, and they’ve all spent a minimum of twenty minutes oohing and aahing over every detail. None of them grew up with the level of luxury Scarlett is accustomed to. All of them knew their time here would be limited and singular.

Technically, Scarlett has a claim to this property. Our ironclad prenup distributes our substantial assets in the event we get divorced. As long as we’re married, they all belong to the other—with the exception of the magazine she asked me to sign away. Possessing something often causes it to lose its luster. It’s human nature to covet what we can’t or don’t have. Appreciating what we do own is much rarer.

I watch our driver stack the suitcases in the entryway, then turn back to Scarlett. She’s twisting her long brunette locks up into a bun, looking around like she’s stepped inside a museum and is observing its artifacts. Appreciative, yet detached.

“I’ll be back by six.”

She spins, paying attention to me for the first time since we arrived. “Where are you going?”

A question I didn’t ask her once in the past four days, most of which I spent in a hotel room in Paris, working remotely so as not to interrupt her business. “Out.”

“I came all this way and now you’re just leaving?”

“Sound familiar?”

Her eyes flash and her mouth drops. I walk out before she responds. A low blow. An admittance—that her absence and detachment the past few days bothered me. Annoyance—because I want to spend time with her, and rather than man up and admit that to her, I lied. And now I’m having to act like it wasn’t one.

I instruct the driver to leave me at a tiny café in town. Happy chatter fills the street in a smorgasbord of languages. I order a cappuccino from the waitress and take a seat at one of the tiny tables—Europe is the opposite of Texas, it seems—and look out at the stucco buildings and the expensive cars and the ocean sparkling in the sunshine.

My phone starts to ring. I debate answering, but it’s Asher. I haven’t talked to him since I left for Paris.

“Hey.”

“Why aren’t you answering my texts?”

“Why are you acting like a clingy ex?”

He chuckles. “Fuck, dude. I miss you. You coming over tonight?”

I blink, then realize. I was supposed to be back in New York hours ago. “No. I’m at the villa.”

“The villa? Does your dad know?”

Most of the time, I like the fact that my best friend’s office is right down the hall from mine. This is not one of those times. “He’s not my warden. If I want to go to Italy, I’ll fucking go to Italy.”

“I was just asking, man. He was pissed you left for Paris without warning, and the Lancaster acquisition is supposed to close Friday. We’re supposed to run through the final reports tomorrow. The whole team.”

“I’ll review the reports and send my feedback.”

There’s a beat of silence. “It was that bad, huh?”

“What?”

“Traveling with Scarlett. I knew it would be a disaster. You couldn’t even come back together.”

The insinuation chafes. For who knows what reason, I feel the need to defend her. “It wasn’t a disaster. She’s here with me.”

“She is?” Asher sounds shocked.

“We never went on a honeymoon. It’s just for a couple more days.”

“So you’re finally getting some? Must be good if you’re risking Arthur’s wrath.”

My molars grind. I’m not sure when, but my marriage to Scarlett became something I don’t want to discuss with anyone. More than just her, I’m protective of us. I’ve avoided committed relationships like the plague. Even if I’d developed feelings for Hannah Garner or any of the other women I’ve been with, I still would have married Scarlett. At the time, I couldn’t envision putting someone else through watching me marry someone else. Now, I can’t picture putting Scarlett through seeing a woman leave my bedroom. Cheating, because that’s what it would feel like.

The moments between us that felt like they mattered have been fleeting. The kiss before our wedding. Carrying her upstairs when I found her on the couch. Dancing at the Rutherford gala. The Fourth of July. Climbing the Eiffel Tower and exploring Versailles.

They’re like us. Messy and scorching and confusing and thrilling and consuming.

We’ve only been married for a little over a month. And yet, I can’t imagine my life without her in it. It would be like living with bad vision for years, getting glasses, and then losing them for good. Living with sharp clarity and then returning to dull blurs, knowing what you were missing out on. Scarlett makes me see things differently. Clearly. I can’t explain it to anyone, and I don’t want to. I’m different around her, and I’d like to think she’s different around me too.

Asher clearly doesn’t know what to make of my elongated silence. I’m not the passive aggressive type. I say what I mean. I told him my marriage to Scarlett wouldn’t change a thing, and I believed it. He believed it.

I was wrong.

“Did you call to discuss anything besides my sex life?” I ask.

“I heard you punched Camden Crane on the Fourth. Sebastian showed up at the office this week. Feel like discussing that?”

“No.”

Asher sighs. “You went to the Hamptons, man.”

“They’re my in-laws. It would have been rude to skip it.”

“She’s not worth it, Crew.”

I clench my cup.

“I know you’re a decent guy, and so does she. She’s using it. Playing you. Everyone says she’s an ice queen. Even if the sex is good, cut your losses. Just—”

“Stop. Talking.”

“Crew…”

“She’s not an ice queen. You should trust me on that, not the guys bitter she never gave them the time of day.”

“If you say so.” Asher’s voice is skeptical.

“If you don’t believe me, ask Camden Crane what he was saying right before I punched him,” I suggest. “If you want to discuss anything related to work, email me. I’ll answer once I’ve thawed out.” Then I hang up.

I can’t look away from her. Candles dance between us, casting a soft glow over Scarlett. Across her sharp cheekbones and long lashes. Her red lips and blue dress.

She was quiet when I returned from the café. Agreeable when I suggested going out to dinner. We’re at my favorite restaurant. The railing to my left is built into the cliff itself. A glance to the side, and all you can see is the churning sea. We’re suspended on solid ground.

“So everything is all set? With rouge?” I ask.

“Yes. The website will go live tomorrow as soon as it’s announced.”

“Are you excited?”

I’m expecting a glib retort. Not, “Terrified.”

For a second, I think she’s messing with me. But the tiny shrug before she takes a bite of bucatini is genuine in its vulnerability.

I lean forward. “Don’t take this the wrong way—”

She interrupts. “Terrible way to start a sentence.”

I smile. “Why are you doing it? I know Haute has been lucrative, but you don’t need the money. You were already handling the jobs of three people, and then you went and added more work for yourself. At first, I thought it was me—us. You were avoiding being at home. But at dinner with Jacques…you’ve been planning this for years. Why, Scarlett? I get proving yourself, I do. But pushing yourself like this seems…I don’t know. Excessive?”

Scarlett looks out at the water. The sunset is smeared across the sky behind her. Splashes of tangerine and peach mingled with golden light. Her profile is just as stunning as the rest of her.

Sighing, I lean back. “Never mind. I—”

“I feel like I need to earn it.” She turns back toward me, her hazel eyes appearing more green than brown tonight. “My whole life, I’ve had everything handed to me. Yeah, I worked for things, but I would have gotten them, regardless. Harvard wasn’t going to reject an Ellsworth. Applying was practically a formality. I saw Haute was for sale, and I… I don’t know. I knew I could turn it around. Even now that it’s doing well, I haven’t fully let myself trust it. The harder I work, the more I feel like I deserve the success. But I took it over. The pieces were all in place; I just used money and connections to make them shiny again. With rouge…it’s mine. All me. I want the clothes I design to make women feel powerful. I want them to be made in cities where people need work, in a building where people are excited and proud to be working there. I want to feel like I did something that mattered, and that I did it myself. When I donate to charities, that’s all I can do. Sign the check. I’m not healing the kids or flying the plane with emergency supplies. But I know clothes. I can design the outfit that someone wears when they get their dream job. Or on the first date with the person they’re going to marry. Or—” She stops talking and looks away, cheeks flushing. “It’s silly, I know.”

“It’s not.” That’s all I say until she meets my gaze. “It’s not silly, Red.” I lift my glass and tip it toward her. “To rouge.”

“To rouge,” she echoes, tapping hers against mine.

We maintain eye contact as we both drink, and it feels more intimate than I can recall sex ever being.

“Royce Raymond wants me to take over his production company.” A subtle rise of her eyebrows is the only indication she heard me. “He made the offer at our wedding. Said I should carve out my own legacy. I don’t think I’ll take it. But…it’s an option.”

Scarlett drains her glass and refills it. “An option in LA?”

“I wouldn’t consider it if it was in LA.”

“Why not? It’s warm. Sunny. You could surf.”

I smirk. “I don’t know how to surf.”

“You could learn.”

Somehow, Scarlett always manages to say what I least expect. “Do you want to move to LA?”

She scoffs. “Of course not. New York is home. I’d never move to California.”

“Like I said, I wouldn’t consider it if I had to move to LA.”

That confession sits between us for a minute. “You don’t know anything about the film industry.”

“How do you know?” I counter.

“You read or you watch baseball when you have free time.”

She’s right; I can’t even come up with the name for the last movie I watched. I’m surprised she noticed. “I said the same thing,” I admit. “He said he has people who do. He wants me for my business sense.” I leave off the bit about my moral compass.

Scarlett nods, as if that answer makes sense. “No crack about how I don’t have any?” I tease.

“I’ve seen the department reports. I know you do.”

“Why were you looking at the reports?” How? Those aren’t public record.

“I was curious. And I’m a Kensington.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’re wondering how I got access.” She takes a bite of her pasta. Chews. Swallows. “That’s how.”

“Oh,” is my brilliant response.

She hasn’t shown any interest in Kensington Consolidated, but she’s right. As of our marriage, she gained a substantial share of the company. More than enough to gain access to company reports, or anything else she might request.

“I don’t think you should take it,” she continues.

“Take what?”

She rolls her eyes. “The Royce offer.”

“Really? I thought you’d want me to.”

Her eyes narrow. “Why?”

“Because of everything you just said to me. About earning your own accomplishments. Not being my dad’s bitch.”

“I never meant any of that shit, Crew.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No, I didn’t. I wanted to hurt you and I didn’t know how else to do it. Kensington Consolidated is your birthright. Your family’s legacy. You deserve it. Anyone else would destroy it.”

I process that. “What about Ellsworth Enterprises? I could say the same to you. You’re the sole heir.”

She shrugs. “We’ll figure it out when that time comes, I guess.”

“We, huh?”

Pink stains her cheeks. “If there’s a we, then.”

“I didn’t have a meeting today.” I blurt the confession with no prelude, no further explanation.

She studies me. “Where did you go earlier?”

“I read at a café for three hours.”

“Why?”

I know she’s not asking why I read. “I wanted to bring you here. I didn’t think you’d come otherwise.”

“I’m a Kensington now.”

I blink at another rapid turn in conversation. “Yeah, I know. I was at the wedding, remember?”

She doesn’t smile at the lame joke. “If rouge fails—if I fail—your last name will be associated with it. That’s why I got so upset in Paris. I don’t want you to be disappointed in me.”

I’m so stunned I can’t speak. It feels like I’m hearing these words through a wind tunnel—I don’t want you to be disappointed in me. From a distance and a shout. “Scar—” I clear my throat. Once. Twice. “Scarlett, how could you—I could never be disappointed in you, okay? I swear. You could murder someone, and I’d bury the body, no questions asked. If rouge doesn’t do well, I’ll be fucking proud of you for trying.”

A few seconds pass where she says nothing, and I become convinced I should have said nothing. They add up to fifty, and I spend most of them rewinding our conversation, spotting all the ways I could have avoided this.

“I spied on you.”

“What?”

She half-smiles and gulps more wine. “If we’re sharing secrets… When I was in Paris, I spied on you every night. Through the security cameras. With the time difference, I was back at my hotel when you got home from work. I spied. Every single night.”

“Why did you?”

“I was curious, I guess. What you would do. How you’d act. What you were really like.”

“And what did you learn?”

“Not much. You’re pretty boring.”

I smirk. “Not boring enough not to spy on, apparently.”

Making Scarlett blush might be my new favorite hobby. Every time, it feels like a gift. An accomplishment.

“Whatever.”

My grin widens. She laughs and looks away.

“You ready to go?”

“Yeah.”

I flag a waiter and pay the check, stealing glances at Scarlett the whole time.

By the time we leave the restaurant, it’s pitch black out. I didn’t realize how much time had passed. When I’m with her, I don’t focus on anything else. A disconcerting realization for someone used to being in control.

The later hour hasn’t dampened any activity. The streets are just as busy as they were earlier. We walk side by side, closer than is called for. I glare at every guy who does a double take at her.

Scarlett stumbles over absolutely nothing, and I reach out to grab her arm. She laughs. “I thought we didn’t touch.”

“You’re drunk,” I realize.

She thrusts one hand in my face, holding her thumb and pointer finger tightly pressed together right in front of my face. “Only this much.”

I tug them a few inches apart. “I think you mean this much.”

I’ve never seen Scarlett tipsy before. Usually, she’s the picture of poise and snark no matter how many glasses of champagne she’s downed. It’s oddly endearing, how her eyes twinkle and her nose crinkles. She looks younger. “Nope.” She pops the P and closes the gap. Between her fingers and between us. “I meant this much.”

Before I can reply, she kisses me. She’s unsteady on her heels, leaning on me and off-center as she loops her arms around my neck and sucks on my tongue on a busy street.

Most of our kisses have been hurried. This is no exception. She kisses me like there’s a timer. Like the world is ending and we’re the only two people who still exist.

She pulls back after a couple of minutes of public indecency. Before I have the willpower to, despite the fact I only had one drink at dinner, not however many glasses of wine it took to put this sloppy grin on her face.

Halfway to the pier where we left the speedboat we drove from the villa, Scarlett stops and slips off her shoes. And then she starts skipping toward the sand. Her brunette hair waves in the wind and her blue dress flies around her thighs.

For the first time since I met Scarlett, I think she looks carefree. Happy. The wine probably deserves more credit than I do, but I still claim some. Especially when we reach the sandy beach and she reaches out and tangles her fingers with mine. “I wish there were fireworks.”

“Maybe next time.”

“You’d come back here?”

“If you want to.”

She stands and stares at me as the breeze blows her hair into a wild disarray. “It scares me.”

I feel my brow furrow. “What scares you?”

“How much I want to come back. How much I want…you.”

She immediately regrets the confession. I read it in how her shoulders tense. The way she looks away from me and out at the ocean instead.

“Scarlett.” I step closer.

“What?”

She still won’t look at me, so I grip her chin and turn her face toward me. “I want you. I’ll always want you.”

Her face twists with disbelief. “You don’t know that. This will—”

I don’t loosen my hold. “I do know that. You’re my wife. I meant those vows. You’re the only woman I’ve ever approached in a bar. I wouldn’t have given anyone else my mother’s ring. Risked a massive business contract because some drunk dick described how he would fuck her. You’re different, Scarlett. You matter to me, Red. I’d choose you over anyone. Anytime. Anywhere. Don’t doubt that. Ever.”

“I don’t want you to matter.” The statement rings with a sincerity her words usually lack.

“I know.” My response is instantaneous. But the words are filled with so much heat and longing, I expect them to leave scorch marks on my lips. I’m not sure when we became this. When she started to matter so damn much.

“But you already do.”

“I know that too.”

She shoves me. “Have a conversation with yourself, then.” Her tone has returned to the bossy one she usually uses with me.

I chuckle and pull her back to me. “You get your fill of the beach?”

She sighs and droops against me. “Yeah. I’m tired.”

I scoop her up and carry her down the dock bridal-style.

“What are you doing?” she murmurs.

“Carrying you.”

“Don’t stop,” she instructs, her voice sleepy.

“I won’t.”

“Don’t give up on me.”

“I won’t,” I repeat.

Scarlett is silent for the rest of the walk to the pier. She curls up on the boat’s seat as soon as I lay her down. The drive back to the villa takes ten minutes. I tie the boat up and lift her again. Her arms loop around my neck as she snuggles her head beneath mine. The neediness should feel constricting. Instead, I savor it. I slow my steps as I climb the stone stairs and cross the backyard, delaying the inevitable destination.

Most of the villa’s lights are on, shining through the darkness like a beacon. Scarlett blinks as we draw closer. Once we’re through the front door, I set her down. And she starts undressing. Her shoes go flying first. Then she’s twisting and yanking at the zipper of her dress. It falls, faced with her stubbornness. All of a sudden, there’s a whole lot of skin on display.

I scrub a hand across my face as she strolls across the living room in nothing but a pair of matching pink lace.

Fuck. Me. Of course, this is the night she decides to give me a goddamn lingerie show.

And then that’s gone too.

Words get stuck in my throat as she walks toward me, totally naked. “Why are you still wearing clothes?”

“Because I’m not drunk.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Okay,” I agree. Arguing with a drunk person is usually a fruitless exercise. Arguing with a drunk Scarlett would be like hitting my head against a brick wall: pointless and painful.

“I want you to fuck me.”

Jesus Christ. I was in no way prepared for a proposition. Yeah, I definitely thought about this happening tonight, but not like this. Not when I have no idea what she’s really thinking. Feeling. “Not like this.”

Annoyance flashes across her face, followed by hurt. It feels like a rusty knife. No matter what, we’re never on the same page at the same time. “Is it because I have to beg for it?”

If she does, I’ll really lose it. “Fuck. No.”

Once again, I’ve said the exact wrong thing. “Guess you won’t be finding out what it’s like to fuck your wife.”

She throws my own words at me and then stalks into the master bedroom, slamming the door behind her for good measure.

I rake my fingers through my hair, trying to erase the memory of what just happened. Two steps forward, three steps back.

The guest room next to the master is a foreign sight. I haven’t set foot in here for years. When my father sets up a “family” vacation, it’s always to the Alps for Christmas or on some tropical island. Whenever I’ve spent time here, I’ve stayed in the master. There’s no way I’m setting foot in there tonight.

I strip down to my boxers and face plant into bed.

I wake with a dry throat while it’s still dark out. I roll around in the sheets for a few minutes, trying to find a comfortable spot that will lull me back to sleep. Eventually, I give up. I stand and leave the bedroom, heading for the dark, silent kitchen.

It takes me three tries to find the cabinet with the glasses in it. I fill one with cold water from the tap, drain most of it, refill it, and then turn to leave.

Scarlett is leaning against the doorway, staring at me. My heart rate accelerates, slows, and then picks up again.

“Do you want any water?”

She scoffs and turns away.

I cross the kitchen in a few strides and grab her arm. “Scarlett. Look, I—”

She whirls on me. “What? What do you want from me, Crew? Because I thought it was sex. But I offered that to you on a platinum fucking platter and you decided to sleep down the hall.”

“You weren’t thinking clearly.”

“No shit. I can’t think clearly around you.”

“That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me, baby.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“I’d like to.”

That seems to pierce whatever armor she’s wearing underneath her flimsy nightgown. These scraps of short fabric will be the death of me, I swear. “Will this end once we have sex?”

“What?”

“Forget it.”

“Just say what you mean, Red. I’m not a fucking mind reader.”

She chews on her bottom lip. “I want to sleep with you. I don’t want it to change things.”

“Change them from what? Not talking in New York?”

“From…” She shakes her head. “Never mind.”

I make the first move. I erase the space between us and press my palm against her waist, guiding her against me.

She makes the second. Her hands run up my arms and shoulders before sliding in my hair. “Just warn me, okay?” she whispers. “Warn me it’s going to end. I’ll be fine, as long as I have a warning.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Scarlett doesn’t answer. She kisses me. Heady and deep and arousing. The sort of kiss that can be the main event. I could kiss her for hours. Memorize exactly how it feels, how she tastes, the little sounds she makes, and it still wouldn’t be enough.

But I realize this won’t be the main event when her hand slides south. Before I can think, much less react, she’s fisting my cock. And I’m done. I won’t be the one stopping this. The brakes aren’t working. I want her. I’ve wanted her for so long it’s hard to remember a time when I didn’t.

She makes quick work of my boxers, and I tug off the silk that barely covers her. I’m not thinking clearly, but I’m aware enough to realize this doesn’t have to happen in the kitchen. I haul her up against my body, and her legs wrap around my waist. Maneuvering through the dark house while carrying her isn’t easy, but I manage.

I toss her down on the bed, in the midst of tangled sheets that suggest tossing and turning. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Stop talking.” Her hand grips my hair as she steers me back to her lips.

I want to savor this: her feel, her taste, the sight of her spread beneath me. But it’s dark in here, meaning I can’t see much more than her shape. I haven’t had sex in months, which isn’t helping matters.

Scarlett isn’t exactly slowing things down. She writhes beneath me until the tip of my cock slides through her wet heat. Her hips rise, teasing me. Pressing us closer together. Fingernails dig into my back. My name breaks the silence in a ragged moan.

I start to sink inside her and realize what feels different.

I pull away, trying to remember where I left my luggage.

“Don’t stop.” Her voice is unlike I’ve ever heard it. Desperate. The vocal equivalent of stepping in someone’s way.

“I need a condom.”

“No, you don’t.”

It’s not the response I’m expecting. We haven’t discussed birth control or kids—aside from her saying she isn’t ready to have them. Not to mention, there’s the surgeon she’s supposedly screwing. I’m clean, but she doesn’t know that. All things we’ll need to discuss eventually, but not right now.

Her answer is reckless and irresponsible, neither of which are adjectives I’d normally use to describe Scarlett.

My shock must show on my face. Abruptly, she drops her hands from my back, lying on the white sheet like she’s about to make a snow angel. Open, but not vulnerable. “Forget it. Get one.”

She’s silent as I stand and locate my suitcase. I can feel the annoyance radiating clear across the room. I feel like I missed something and I’m not sure what. There’s a good chance I won’t need the foil packet I return to the bed with.

“We don’t have to do this tonight.”

In answer, she takes the condom from me, rips it open, and rolls it down my dick. Then she straddles my lap and sinks down. Her heavy exhale is half-whimper, half-moan as I fill her. I mentally recite every finding from the latest quarterly report to keep from immediately coming like a horny teenager. She’s wet and hot and Scarlett.

I let her control the pace. Let her take me deep and fast and frantic. Let her use me like a toy to get herself off. Part of me is pleased she wants me as much as I’ve been wanting her. Part of me is just caught off guard. I don’t give up control—during sex, when it comes to anything.

Except when it comes to her, apparently.

When Scarlett doesn’t care, she shuts down. Her desperate movements aren’t indifference. She wants this, and she’s showing me just how much. I trace the length of her throat with my tongue, tasting the hint of salt on her skin from our trip across the waves. She smells like lemon and something floral, almost sweet.

When I trail my tongue down between her breasts, she gasps and circles her hips. I grunt. “You’re close, Red. I can feel you clenching around me.” Wet, greedy sounds fill the room as she impales herself on me over and over again, chasing her release.

“Crew.” She says my name like a curse.

“Are you going to come on my cock, Red?”

Our lips meet in a dirty, messy kiss. And then she’s convulsing around me, making sounds that almost push me over the edge after her.

I flip her over so she’s beneath me and lift one of her legs as I sink back inside her. My lips find the shell of her ear. I don’t look at her face, I just use her body the same way she just used mine. “You came fast, Scarlett. Do your boy toys not get the job done?” She yanks my mouth back to hers and bites my bottom lip so hard I taste blood.

Scarlett can’t be owned or tamed or controlled. It’s part of her appeal. Wild, raw beauty is the most devastating sort. She’s a storm, the cataclysmic kind you can’t help but respect even as you mourn its upheaval.

“What’s it like to fuck your wife, Crew?”

Adrenaline floods my system. I’m high—on sensation, on thrill, on her. I rub her swollen clit as I keep fucking her with quick, brutal thrusts. “Do you always get this wet, or is it for me?”

Scarlett fights it, but I hear the moan slip between her lips. Goose bumps pebble her bare skin, despite the fact the air conditioning isn’t on in here. I take and take and take, speeding up the pace of my thrusts with each stroke. And she spreads her legs as far as they’ll go, letting me in deeper. Begging without words.

I pound into her like I’m winning our battle of wills, like I’m claiming her as a prize. Scarlett claws at my back and meets my thrusts, spurring me on. She can lie to me all she wants, but her body can’t engage in the same deception. Setting aside the mess of other emotions between us, the things we haven’t said, our chemistry is the combustible sort. It crackles in the air like a summer storm.

She’s wearing my ring, but she’s never felt like mine. This is the only way I can claim her, fucking her as hard and as thoroughly as possible. The headboard taps a cadence against the wall. Sweat builds between our bodies.

I slow my movements, not ready for this to end yet. Scarlett swears. I’ll have marks on my back tomorrow.

“Please, Crew. Please.”

She begs me before she starts to convulse again, and I don’t have a prayer of making this last any longer. The throaty pleas set me off. A tsunami of pleasure hits, rolling through my body in a powerful wave. Heat erupts in a white-hot fire that shoots through me and erases everything else. Thoughts, fears, worries? All gone.

There’s just me and the woman making me come harder than I ever have before.

The aftermath of sex is usually predictable. I’m used to clinginess and questions. With Scarlett, I’ve learned to expect the unexpected.

So when I pull out and toss the condom and the first thing she says is, “You’re good in bed,” I laugh.

“You don’t sound surprised.”

“I’m not.”

Close to a compliment. “I can go…”

She shifts so her head is on a pillow. A slight breeze shifts the air as she drags the sheets over her naked body. “If you want.”

It’s not what I want, and I know the word choice was deliberate. So I lie down beside her.

I stare up at the ceiling, trying to reconcile how it’s possible for something to surpass every expectation and to also fall short. Sᴇaʀ*ᴄh the (F)indNƟvᴇl.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

In the darkness, there’s no metric for time passing. Seconds, minutes, maybe hours later, Scarlett’s breathing hasn’t evened.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Her leg jerks, hitting mine. “I thought you were asleep.”

“Nope.” I pop the P, just to extend the one word I have to offer.

“It was…different than I was expecting.”

I tense. Debate responding. Grind my molars. “Your surgeon makes you come three times?” I sound jealous—sound like I care—and I hate that I do. I should be relieved she’s not clingy. That I’ll never need to feel guilty for taking other women up on their offers. Instead, I’m marinating in a disgusting mixture of rage and annoyance.

“That’s not what I mean.”

“What do you mean?”

She’s silent. For so long, I wonder if she’s managed to fall asleep.

“Don’t hate me,” Scarlett whispers.

“I don’t.”

She sighs, and it’s the saddest sound I’ve ever heard. “You will.”

Then she rolls over, so all I can see is her back.