Rouge: A Dark Billionaire Romance (Tattered Curtain Series)

Lacey

According to the microwave, it’s been twenty-seven minutes and I still don’t have my shit together.

The first eight consisted of me raging against the locked door and trying to find a key. The next nineteen were spent wallowing in self-pity.

During the pity phase, I began to feel ashamed that I’d wallowed longer than I’d raged. Then I realized I’d been whining over being locked up in a penthouse prison when my own father is in actual jail. But that got me worrying about what will happen once the Baron finds out I’m already married. On top of all that, visions of a dead woman I’ve never met flashed through my brain on repeat, making me feel guiltier than ever because I can’t stop wondering if the murder at Rouge has something to do with me. Then I berated myself for being arrogant enough to think everything is about me.

And while I paced, stretched, and fidgeted about the suite, ruminating and trying to calm myself down, I caught my reflection in a mirror—still in my ridiculous tulle Halloween costume—and I got pissed all over again.

I made the stupid decision to sleep with a total stranger, but it was supposed to be my last night of fun. Now I’ve got a marriage and a potential mini-McKennon to worry about.

Oh God.

That last reminder makes me queasy, which makes me spiral into how insufferable I’d be if I ever got morning sickness.

It’d serve him right having to take care of me puking my brains out.

I pause at the thought.

No other Garde man I know has ever stepped foot near his pregnant wife, let alone helped her when she had morning sickness. So why would I expect Kian to be the exception?

Because he is.

“Okay, brain, you’re going to have to stop having a full-on conversation with me right now. It’s getting weird.”

Anything is better than romanticizing the man who kidnapped me, so I shake my head to clear my mind and go back to wallowing.

I was a “Garde good girl,” as Roxy put it. Or at least I was so good at pretending, people didn’t notice the difference. I know my role. I never embarrass my family or ruin alliances. I even tricked myself into thinking I was the one who was choosing to marry the Baron.

And now that carefully curated facade of a life is being challenged by my family’s enemy because of one unforgivably stupid decision.

Fucking Kian McKennon.

I was willing to go quietly down the aisle with the Baron smirking behind his fading, dirty-blond goatee. But now that Kian has stolen all of my so-called “options,” the frustration, desperation, and hopelessness of the last few years boil over and spill out as rage.

“Fuck you, Kian McKennon!”

I scream the words over and over again at the top of my lungs until my aching throat rebels and grows hoarse at the end. A frustrated groan rumbles from my chest and I collapse onto the leather couch dramatically. The flair actually helps me not feel so sorry for myself, but it does nothing for that other frustration still burning in my core.

Screw Kian for denying me an orgasm. Yeah, sure, I shouldn’t have slapped him, but he spanked me!

And I liked it.

“Nope. Nope. No, I didn’t. And even if I did, I’m not thinking about it.”

Propping myself up on my elbows, I stare at the door, wondering where the hell Kian went off to. Probably a strip club if his hard-on and innuendo were any indications.

I rub the wisp of pain floating in my chest.

No! No. No. No. I will not feel jealousy over that man. I lie back down and stretch my legs on the couch while I attempt to channel my thoughts into something worthwhile.

When I dance, it helps to visualize my body moving and flowing into each position. Coming up with strategies to navigate life in the Garde is like coming up with my own choreography. It’s usually easy to figure out my next steps. But Kian has thrown off my routine and I’m at a loss for what to do.

At least my head doesn’t hurt anymore, although the screaming hasn’t done my throat any favors. My body and mind are nowhere near peak shape thanks to the alcohol, bad decisions, and whatever drug Kian injected in me.

Prick.

“You’re a prick! You hear me, Kian? You are a PRICK!”

I huff and roll off the couch—just as theatrically as I landed on it—and trudge to the kitchen. For the thousandth time in thirty-something minutes, I’m busy talking to myself and wishing he could hear me… when my eyes spot the speaker by the door.

The one he taunted me through.

Can he hear me even if I don’t engage the speaker? And if he can…

“Can you see me, too?” I whisper and begin to tiptoe around the room, my head on a swivel. I don’t know what I’m searching for, exactly, until I find them.

Nestled in the ceiling corners are small, round domes the size of golf balls and the same crisp white color as the walls. They’re just like the ones that hid security cameras in my house growing up. Does Kian’s bodyguard have a security app on his phone?

No. There’s no way Kian would’ve wanted someone else seeing me get “punished” earlier.

But Kian would definitely have the app on his phone. Hell, he’s probably watching me lose my mind right now.

Only one way to find out.

I carefully school my face as I enter the kitchen and nonchalantly use the hair tie on my arm to tame my tangled tresses into a practical high pony. If I’m going to fucking war, I’m not going to let bed head stop me.

There’s no alcohol in the kitchen—or anywhere in the suite, for that matter. I checked during the wallowing phase. If there had been any, I’d have already drowned my sorrows in the bottom of a bottle.

I settle for a glass of cool water from the refrigerator and lean back against the counter to sip it. I’m in the perfect spot to see through the kitchen’s open door into the living room and its priceless decor.

The room is displayed like a museum, reminding me of an article I read in a modern architecture and interior design magazine. The featured owner was a single bachelor who hardly ever spent any time enjoying his home because he traveled for work. Even though the magazine tried to glamorize the enviable style of the rich and famous, in real life, it always looks so… lonely.

If Kian wants me to have his children—not that I ever would—but hypothetically, if he wants me to, they’re not going to live in a place like this. I grew up in a place like this, one where children are seen but not heard, and even with parents that loved me, I hated it.

Most Garde children are just a means to an end, a way for parents to ensure the family inheritance stays within their lineage. The height of the family tree is more important than the living branches within. All one needs to secure the windfall is a single heir. That’s the only goal the Garde’s greedy, loveless marriages ever shoot for.

In the society’s early days, infighting among siblings was a huge problem. There are plenty of stories about one child destroying, ruining, or even murdering their own kin just for money. Sometimes the parents even got involved, choosing sides and favorites and covering up the crimes. It was sick.

Would Kian be like that as a father? Does he only want an heir so the pretty things in his living room stay in the McKennon name?

What would he do if all his pretty things just suddenly… broke?

As I meander through the kitchen, sipping my water, I casually try to open drawers, looking for forks, knives, or any sharp objects that’d be a good weapon or tool for destruction. But in this suite that’s totally unsuitable for kids, Kian has childproofed everything. I’m annoyed if he actually thinks that could stop me… but then I get even more irritated when I can’t for the life of me figure out how to get past the damn things.

When I finally give up, I finish the last half of my water all in one gulp and set the glass on the countertop with a little too much force. The clinking sound makes me wince.

“Shit.” I snatch it off the marble to make sure I didn’t… chip… the…

Crystal.

A wicked smile curves my lips.

Perfect.

I raise my arm high and slam the glass against the black-and-white checkered marble flooring. The thousand-dollar glass shatters into just as many pieces.

“Oh look at that, Kian. A dollar for every shard.” A manic laugh bubbles out of me and I point to the security camera in the corner of the room. “You’re going to regret making me your wife, husband.”

I ransack each cabinet until I find every porcelain plate, crystal glass, and dinnerware piece that Kian owns. Each one meets a shattering end as I pitch them at the closest hard surface and revel in the cacophony of chaos. When I’m out of breakable tableware, I search through the glittering debris for a piece that’s long enough to use. But as I’m sifting, a particularly sharp shard embeds itself into my bare foot.

“Ow, ow, ow, ow, oww-ah, Jesus.”

Watching my step, I hobble up onto a clean countertop and gingerly pull the fragment out before dumping it in the trash can stowed inside a cabinet beneath the counter. I unfold one of the thick paper napkins beside the sink next to me and press it to the cut to staunch the bleeding. After a minute or so, I pull it away to analyze the damage.

Only a sliver of skin has been sliced open and it shouldn’t require stitches to heal. Blood has thoroughly soaked the M monogram on the napkin, though, so I grab another to wrap around my heel, and hold it until the bleeding mostly stops before tossing both napkins into the trash.

Undeterred from my mission, I check the marble tile before I carefully slide off the counter and use the balls of my feet to awkwardly march into the living room to do some real damage.

My first casualty is a gorgeous Versace pillow and I turn to one of the cameras and smile sweetly as I unzip the closure. My evil plan would be much more satisfying with a knife, but I don’t want to chance getting cut by glass again, so I can make do with moderate mayhem rather than total destruction for now.

Tiny feathers burst out of the pillow and fly away, and I move on to the next, and the next, and the next after that, without stopping. My pace grows feverish until feathers drift around me and rest at my feet like soft confetti.

“You have more decorative pillows than my mom, you know!” I yell. “Well, you used to.”

When I don’t get a response, I keep going, grabbing the leather cushions off the couch and tossing them at anything fragile I can see.

“What’s the point of a fluffy… feather… pillow… if the fabric case is hard as hell? Huh?” I shout into the empty space.

I’m beginning to feel silly that I keep putting on a show without knowing if there’s an audience. But I’m on a roll now, riding the anger that’s been nagging me for years.

If it’s fragile, I break it. If it has threads, I unravel it. And if it’s light enough, I throw it. Nothing’s safe in my path and I’m a whirlwind until I’m out of shit to ruin and the entire room is in disarray.

When the air-conditioning hits the feathers just right, they catch the breeze and spin away. Deconstructed blankets are strewn about in tangled threads, and cushion cases lie haphazardly around the room. Steel and glass art jut up from the floor like debris after a storm.

I take a deep breath and settle my hands on my hips, basking in the first completely unhinged moment I’ve ever let myself have.

But the triumph I expect never comes. Instead, disappointment seeps in, clearing the red haze from my vision.

I glance up at the emotionless cameras and plop onto the soft white rug in front of the faux fireplace. A cloud of feathers poofs up and drifts back down around me. My fingers fidget with one of the wool strands left over from a cashmere blanket I massacred.

“Where the hell are you?” I mutter, hating that I care so much about the answer.

“What the feck do you think you’re doing, Lacey McKennon?”

And… just like that, I’m pissed all over again.

“Lacey O’Shea!” I yell at the speaker near the door. “Fake marriage or not, I still haven’t changed my name!”

“An oversight I’ll remedy immediately, I can fecking assure you. What the bloody hell are you doing to my suite?” The emotion behind his Irish lilt gives me the reaction I’ve been dying for since I threw the first crystal glass.

“Your suite?” I ask, a coy smile forming on my lips now that I know he can see me. “But we’re married, baby. What’s yours is mine, right?”

A growl echoes over the speakers and slams into my core. My pent-up orgasm from earlier floods to life again, and another idea filters through my mind. I’m kind of mad I didn’t think of it before. It would’ve been a hell of a stress reliever.

“What’s mine is yours alright and your arse is mine in less than ten minutes.”

Promise?

I bite my tongue to keep from saying it out loud.

“About that…” I arch backward to slowly lie down on the bed of feathers, cashmere, and cotton I’ve made for myself. “I didn’t like the way you treated my ass this morning.”

“Don’t lie to me, Lace. I felt how wet you were. You were putty in my hands. I could’ve slipped inside you and made you come in one thrust.”

A delicious shiver erupts goose bumps in a wave across my skin. His dark chuckle rumbles over the speakers, but I keep my wits about me this time.

“Yeah, well you didn’t… so I guess that leaves matters in my own hands. Now how on earth should I go about doing that, hmm?”

Determined to go through with my threat, I position myself so that one of the cameras can see my bare pussy underneath my tulle skirt. I spread my legs wide before snaking my fingers down to dip into my core.

“Lacey…” He swallows after saying my name. The warning in his deep voice makes my clit pulse and I immediately start swirling my fingers around it. “That cunt is mine. Your orgasms are mine. You… are mine. If you make yourself come before I get there—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…” I huff breathily as I slip two fingers into my already slick pussy. I push off my heels to get a better angle, but the pressure on my injured foot makes me hiss.

“What’s wrong, tine?” Kian’s voice is dark and delicious, promising the sweetest of sins. “Is your swollen, needy pussy sore from my cock? Or is your arse aching from my hand?”

“No,” I grumble and shift my weight off my injured foot.

He’s not wrong, though. My pussy is sore thanks to his size and I can almost feel his large hand still spanking my sensitive ass cheek. But I’d sooner become a nun than admit that to my fake husband.

“If you wait for me, tine, I’ll be gentle,” he croons as my fingers stroke against my G-spot and the heel of my palm massages my clit. “I’ll dine on that sweet pussy, making sure you’re ready for me. Then I’ll thrust into you deep and slow until your cunt squeezes the life out of my cock as you come.”

“Why should I—” I moan loudly, partly to rile him further but mostly because I’m quickly approaching the brink. My other hand tugs my corset down and plays with my peaked nipple. I badly want his tongue there instead, but I don’t want to stop now. “Why should I w-wait for you when you’ve been out getting off without me? Was she… was she pretty at least?”

Wait, why the hell did I ask that?

There’s a pause and I don’t realize I’ve stopped breathing until he answers.

“There’s no one but you, tine. There hasn’t been for a while.”

My fingers still completely. Hadn’t he said he was going to a strip club? Did he say those words exactly? Or did I infer it? I’m about to ask when an elevator ding sounds from the speaker.

For the first time, it occurs to me that he could be saying these things with an audience. A confusing mixture of humiliation, shame, hurt, and desire swirl through me at the thought.

“Where are you?”

“Somewhere secluded enough that no one will hear me seduce my wife or hear her sweet moans.”

A frisson of pleasure builds inside my core—but not because of the rumbling voice coming through the speakers all around me. I only saw the one beside the door, but Kian must’ve changed where it outputs because his sexy accent now plays throughout the suite in surround sound.

“I-I don’t need your seduction, Kian. I can come—” I draw out a long moan, and I slip my fingers out from my core to focus on my clit and chase my orgasm again. “I can come all on my own.”

“I’m also close enough that if you come before I get there, I swear I’ll make you regret it, Lace.”

“I said I don’t need you! I don’t need anyone! You men are the useless ones, not women.”

There’s silence on the other end, so I perfect the pressure on my clit. My lower belly tightens, bracing my muscles to feel the rush that’s on the verge of rippling through me. Another moan slips out and I cup my whole breast and massage it hard.

“The things I can do to you and the way I can make you feel make me far from useless, wife.”

“It feels so good without you, though.”

His growl nearly pushes me over the edge, “For feck’s sake, Lacey. This is your last warning. If you come without me—”

I cry out as my fingertips finally find that perfect rhythm and a gentle wave of pleasure flows over me. It’s nice and somewhat satisfying, but from the way I’m carrying on, you’d think it was the best orgasm of my life—

The door crashes open and slams shut. I sit up to see the molten gold flecks in Kian’s hazel eyes shining and his dark-auburn hair askew like he’s been ripping through it all the way here. With every breath, his strong chest nearly bursts from his dress shirt underneath his suit jacket, and his cock is so painfully strained against his slacks that I can see the piercing’s imprint in the fabric.

Good. I hope his dick suffered having to watch me come without him.

“See? I didn’t need you at all.”

He shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it to the floor as he prowls toward me. A hungry, crazed smile slowly forms on his face.

“Oh, you’re going to wish you’d waited for me, tine.”