Scandalous Games (Arranged Games Book 1)

“This absolutely beats the view from the Burj Khalifa.”

I stare at Rosa while she stares in awe at the picture of Paris as seen from the Eiffel Tower. The expression on her face, almost comical since nothing usually impresses her. Even if it does, she never has the look of wonderment as she does now while we sit in my old apartment, along with Iris.

“Let me see,” says Iris impatiently, trying to snatch the phone from Rosa’s death grip.

“The picture will not disappear if you wait for a minute,” retorts Ro, putting the phone out of Iris’s reach, who scowls at her.

I definitely missed their mindless bickering.

Iris turns to me and wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. “You fucked him, didn’t you?”

I blush at the vivid memory while trying not to fan my face or ruin another pair of panties. Never imagined I would get off on the things he said and did to my pliable body.

Rosa doesn’t even look up from my phone as she mutters, “Of course, she did. She’s practically glowing like a virgin who discovered dick for the first time. Better question to ask would be… How many times did he make you come?”

“Oh. Shut up, Ro,” I grumble.

“That many, huh?” She smirks.

“I lost count,” I sheepishly answer, covering my face with my palms.

Iris loudly claps and hoots, “Ah ha… I knew you liked Dash, Bee. It was obvious from the way you eye fucked each other whenever you were in the same room.”

“You only saw us together once.”

“One time was enough to know he’s smitten with you.”

“So, keep the groping to a minimum, please,” Rosa requests. “I have no interest in a live porno.”

If she only knew the things I saw and did in Paris. I still can’t believe it sometimes or get it out of my head. I probably never will.

“Again, it only happened once,” I snap, rolling my eyes. “And you weren’t supposed to see.”

“Show me the ring again,” exclaims Iris.

Rosa turns with a big grin just as I raise my left hand, the purple diamond sparkling. Iris takes my wrist and fingers the cut, tracing reverently.

“This must have cost a fortune,” she mutters.

“Awful lot of effort for a fake relationship,” says Rosa suspiciously. “Don’t tell me you caught feelings for each other in such a short time.”

“Of course not,” I hastily counter, scoffing at the insinuation. “We fucked because we’re attracted to one another and he bought the ring to make our relationship as real as possible when we meet my parents tomorrow. That’s all there is to it.”

After spending another extra day in Paris and sightseeing at more local spots, Dash and I returned. Since we were both jet-lagged—well, I was, while his workaholic ass went straight to work—from our long flight, we had to postpone our dinner plans with my family. Of course, my mom didn’t take that too kindly and conveyed as much when I called. Alas, nothing can be done about it.

“As long as it’s a fake relationship with benefits, I say have fun.” I focus on Rosa while Iris wears a neutral expression. I can sense her disagreement from a mile away. “It’s a risky situation you’re in and if one of you wants more, it’ll get messy.”

“There’s nothing to worry about.”

Except I feel like I’m lying to my friends… to myself. The time we spent in Paris, the parts about his life he shared, has shown Dash to me in a new light. I always thought of him as an arrogant, possessive, and cold man but he’s so much more—thoughtful, mischievous, and protective.

He’s still no less possessive and domineering. I mean, he confessed he desired me when I was with Niall and then is constantly calling me his, with an intense clarity in his piercing gaze.

But men say a lot of the things in the heat of the moment, right?

The earth-shattering kiss—it felt too real, like he was marking me as his.

However, as I listen to Rosa’s warning and Iris believing Dash is smitten with me, I’m slightly regretting giving in to him. I know I shouldn’t have broken our rules. It was for this exact reason I made them in the first place.

Now, I don’t know where he and I stand. God, I’m so fucking confused.

It’s been three days since we’ve been back and both of us haven’t had a chance to spend time alone since we’re catching up on our respective workloads. I haven’t even seen him sleep, quite honestly. He’s been holed up in his office and even if he’s home, he’s either on his phone or attending online conference meetings. Always gone in the morning by the time I wake up and then I’m asleep by the time he returns.

Strangely enough, I don’t like that.

“How are you going to tell your parents you’re having a court marriage?” asks Iris, pulling me back to the present.

“Or that you’re doing it the day after tomorrow?” adds Rosa.

I shrug. “I’m just going to rip the Band-Aid off. I don’t want to give them a reason to try to sabotage my relationship with Dash. So, the sooner we marry, the harder it will be for them to not accept it.”

“That’s wise.”

The next two hours pass by in a blur as I tell them all about my adventures, minus the kinky club in Paris, and catch up with their lives. Rosa informs us that her parents are trying to force her to marry Nova by the end of this year, who for some reason is in agreement. So, now she’s trying to figure a way out of it. We don’t arrive at a solution by the time they have to leave.

It’s ten at night when I take the elevator to our—I mean Dash’s—apartment, and I don’t expect him to be home. Hence, my surprise when I find him in the kitchen, cooking no less, with his shirtless back to me. I blink twice to make sure I’m not hallucinating.

“You’re home early,” I state dumbly after a pause. My heart, suddenly galloping in my chest.

He twists to face me, roaming his lazy yet burning gaze over my messy bun, thin cami top, and loose lounge trousers—which are baring my belly button—to the tip of my toes. I don’t miss his lingering pause on my braless breasts, making my nipples harden instantly.

Jesus, I’m needy again.

I pretend I haven’t secretly missed kissing him and the all-consuming way he does it.

I pretend that despite him coming home late every night, I don’t feel him slide into bed and pull me into his arms right after he whispers that he still hates cuddling. As if he knows I’m listening and I have to hide my smile.

Maybe I give it away when I curl my body tightly around his warm one. Don’t know what I’ll do if he sleeps naked like he warned me.

“I didn’t know you cooked.” I nervously fill the silence when he stays quiet.

Rounding the counter, he stalks to where I’m lurking in the doorway while wearing every woman’s kryptonite—low-hanging sweatpants that leave little to the imagination. Like mine wasn’t already corrupted by him.

“Dash—”

His lips descend on mine, stealing my breath away. My back collides against the wall, my hands gripping his wrists as his cup my face and he kisses the ever-loving hell out of me. He pours three days’ worth of tension, longing, desperation into one single kiss.

Like I’m not the only one who missed the mere press of his lips against mine.

The insistent flick of his tongue against the seam of my mouth, followed by the teasing glide as he tastes every corner with a low groan, betrays his satisfaction.

Our breathing is heavy, ragged, and harsh once he pulls back. The green flecks in his eyes, lighter than I’ve ever seen, as he gazes softly into mine. It triggers something in me and suddenly, Rosa’s words from earlier flick through my hazy brain, shattering the momentary bliss.

“The rules.” I attempt to put some distance between us but my words come out hollow, no real power behind them. He sees it for the feeble and pathetic excuse they are.

“Fuck your rules, kitten,” he curses, low and rough. “We play by mine now.”

Before I can argue, he kisses me hard again, shutting me up until I forget my own name.

“Don’t confuse Paris with Vegas.” His thumb rubs my bottom lip. “Everything that happened there between us isn’t staying there. You gave me your body and I’m not returning it. Not yet.”

Wrapping his large hand around my hand, he tugs me toward the kitchen and doesn’t stop near the dining table like I expect. Rounding the island, he turns, grabs me around the waist, and sets me down on the counter in one swift and strong move.

The strap of my cami top falls down one shoulder and my chest expands when he tucks it back into place. The heat from his fingers, burning my skin and lingering after he removes his hand. Every little thing he does, especially the domestic kind, like greeting me home with a kiss, draws me deeper into his orbit.

Until I don’t know if I’m sinking or flying.

Either is dangerous to my heart.

He gives me his back as he goes back to cooking on the stove and speaks casually, “Do you like biryani?”

Instantly, my mouth waters while my semi-functioning brain observes my surroundings and doesn’t miss the delicious aroma of herbs and veggies along with rice simmering in the cooker before Dash covers it to let it steam.

“I do.”

“Good to know burgers aren’t the only thing you eat,” he jokes.

“I have other favorite dishes I enjoy, just so you know.”

“Tell me one.”

My mouth parts before I close it. I swear, literally nothing comes to mind and he turns to glance at me with a smug smirk. So, I blurt out randomly, “I love… fries.”

“That’s a snack.”

“I also like pizza.” My face scrunches as I say it, making his shoulders shake with silent laughter. I throw my hands in the air as I sigh, “Fine. I have an unhealthy obsession with burgers.”

I start to slide off the counter but he’s in front of me in a flash and halts my progress with his hands on my thighs. He towers over my frame even with the added height as I sit on the counter and my neck strains as I maintain eye contact with him.

His eyes dance with mirth and warmth, like I’m a fascinating creature fallen into his lap.

“You’re sexy when you’re mad and too adorable when you’re annoyed.”

“Both of which you make me feel plenty.”

He leans forward, inching his fingers up my inner thigh and closer to my sex before drawling, “They make you plenty wet too, kitten.”

The loud whistling sound of the cooker saves me from his wandering hands and I come to my senses. His eyes promise it’s not over before he reluctantly pulls away. The muscles in his forearms flex as moves to a cupboard to take out the wine glasses, which I didn’t know we had. Then he opens the refrigerator to grab my favorite red wine I always keep at my place.

“Set the plates, wifey.”

Stupid, idiotic butterflies take flight. I couldn’t ignore them even if I tried.

Dash has two moods around me, which I can guess by the nicknames he calls me. I’m his wifey when he’s playful and seductive but when he’s overcome with dark possessiveness and deviant desires, I’m his kitten.

And god, how they both affect me equally.

There was a time when the latter used to annoy me. Now, it’s the polar opposite.

My heart flips at the affection they hold, even when he’s growling in the smooth yet rough timbre of his voice.

Dash quirks a perfect eyebrow when I sit like a statue. I jump and quickly move, not before I notice his hungry gaze lock on my bouncing breasts underneath my top. I’m playing with fire—says his expression.

No skipping bra. I make a note to myself.

We fall into comfortable silence. The air, thick with our unmistakable chemistry. Every once in a while, our arms will brush as we move around each other. My breathing would quicken whenever he presses against my back in a disguised move to grab small things, cornering me between his wide chest and the cold marble of the kitchen island..

The familiar feel of his body takes me back to Paris when he bent me over the bed, held me immobile, and fucked my ass until I came all over him. With a shaky breath and an inner curse, I stand at the opposite end.

His tiny and innocent little actions are confusing my head and driving my libido insane. Our close proximity is a twisted game of foreplay. And it’s made it harder to resist him now that I know what’s waiting after his cold control snaps. Endless pleasure.

The dirty, gritty, savage kind.

It’s when we finally take a seat at the dining table, opposite each other, that I manage to get my insatiable body under control. Steam billows out when he uncovers the pan with precision. My nostrils are hit with the delicious aroma of perfectly cooked rice mixed in a rich dressing.

It’s going to be yummy, of that I have no doubt.

Everything this man does is nothing less than amazing, like failure just isn’t an option for him. It feeds the curious part of me that finds him fascinating. That little glimpse he bared has arisen an addict that craves another hit.

His slightly curly hair falls onto his forehead, highlighting the slope of his Roman nose and pronounced cheekbones as he pours us both wine. My fingers itch to push it back so his eyes—which are my favorite part of him—aren’t hidden.

I shove the urge down because it’s what a girlfriend would do.

We’re not together.

He’s my soon-to-be fake husband.

It’s all pretend.

A sham.

Despite the facts—or should I say warnings—circling my brain, my lips have a mind of their own and I curiously ask, “Who taught you to cook?”

His hands don’t pause as he fills my plate with food and his head tilts an inch, indicating he heard my question. He doesn’t answer immediately and lifts his eyes to mine. Sliding the plate across the table toward me, he replies in a melancholic voice, “Rani Aunty.” Filling his own plate with twice the amount compared to mine, he elaborates, “She was one of my nannies when I was twelve and the only one whose name I remember. Mostly because she was the first one who made an effort to get to know me. I was determined to keep her at arm’s length, never talking because, what was the point, they all left eventually, or I did. Except, my stubbornness had nothing on hers.”

There’s softness and a boyish smile on his usually broody face as he continues, and I raptly listen and hang on to his words.

“I would usually lock myself in my room but one day, I decided to hang out in the living room, giving her the perfect opportunity. She came and sat with me, then randomly began telling me stories about her own kids. It was a one-sided conversation where she didn’t push me to participate. To her, my listening was victory enough. The love in her voice for her family struck me hard because it sounded like a world I thought of as a myth. For weeks, we continued our odd ritual where she regaled me with stories and I listened until one day, I couldn’t help but reply with a sarcastic remark.”

His lips tilt, a faraway look crossing his eyes as though he’s living the memory. Entranced, I watch him. “I can’t recall the exact words I said but the happiness on her face is imprinted in my mind. I began spending more time with her and since cooking was her hobby, most of it was spent in the kitchen. So, she forced me into helping and then taught me a few recipes. Days later, I found her husband had taken another job that required her family to uproot and she wanted me to have something to remember her by. She was with me the shortest yet I was close to her.”

I can just imagine a young Dash feeling abandoned once again and it causes a sharp pain in my chest. A flash of that same hurt flickers, darkening his features before it vanishes. He doesn’t have to say it for me to know she felt like a mother to the lost and lonely boy in him.

He drinks a long sip of the wine and returns his attention to the food but doesn’t eat while I seem to have forgotten about mine.

“Eat, kitten,” he says, lightening the mood. His voice, however, is tense.

I take a bite and an involuntary moan escapes my lips. His gaze heats momentarily as we stare into each other’s eyes.

“You didn’t stay in touch with her after she left?” I ask cautiously, hoping it doesn’t end in a sad way.

He chews another bite, swallows before nodding. “I did. She called me every month. She felt more like family than my own father ever did.”

“So you still talk to her?” Hopefulness lingers in my tone. “She must be so proud of you.”

“She passed away six years ago.”

The spoon clatters on the plate as it drops from my grip.

Again, no trace of emotion. His voice is frigidly impassive whenever he talks about someone close to him dying tragically. Always so matter-of-fact, it’s frightening.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

His chair scrapes across the tiled floors as he abruptly stands, his plate half eaten. Wiping his mouth with a napkin, he downs the wine and excuses himself, “I have an important call to attend. Don’t wait for me.”

Before I can process the sudden one-eighty of the night, he’s gone.

My own appetite lost, I sit alone, staring into space for a few long minutes before composing myself and carrying our unfinished plates to the kitchen. I busy myself by cleaning the space and scold myself yet again.

Why do I have to always push him harder than he’s willing?

He gives an inch and I end up taking a mile.

Switching off the lights, I make my way to the bedroom and like the first night, he’s working on his laptop in the balcony. Only this time, I’m conflicted to disturb him, unable to judge his mood. Instead, I enter the bathroom and get ready for bed.

He hasn’t moved when I slide under the covers. The bedside lamps shining in the otherwise dark room allows me to gaze at him while I lie on my side. The glow of the laptop screen reveals his profile and as if he can sense my presence, our eyes meet across the small distance.

My breathing accelerates and I hold his gaze, wishing I could read his mind. Hoping I could take away the pain he felt his entire childhood. However, I’m no better.

Because in the end, I will be leaving him behind too.