Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 120(@200wpm)___ 96(@250wpm)___ 80(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 120(@200wpm)___ 96(@250wpm)___ 80(@300wpm)
This can't be happening. I'm not ready. No, oh please...OH?
A shudder rocks my body as his lips press against my forehead. It's the briefest of contacts, neither possessive nor demanding, but instead infinitely gentle.
Je ne comprends pas. I don't understand.
He steps back, and I actually feel abandoned. There's this one disorienting moment that I almost sway towards him as his hands leave my waist, my body betraying me with foolish and self-destructive yearning.
My mind replays the past. Me, walking into his catacombs, never thinking my life would change in the blink of an eye. One moment I'm but one of the many pickpockets in the City of Lights. The next, I'm in a holding room and changing into a cream-colored Chanel dress that fits me like a glove. I'd like to think this was mere coincidence, but I think not.
And now...this.
I hate the way my hand noticeably trembles as I sign our marriage certificates. My husband, on the other hand, it's just the usual for him. He wields the pen like a sword, ink slashing against parchment paper with swift and deadly elegance.
MLD.
That's all he writes. In cursive, of course. Just three letters, but I know for a fact that it's more than enough to have many a hardened criminal run away like the devil is after them. (To be fair: that's how I would feel, too, if I were to find out that Monsieur Le Dernier is out for my blood.)
"Shall we?"
The words are a command rather than an invitation, and Monsieur Le Dernier is already walking away as I'm forced to hurry after him.
Typical.
It's just a short distance separating us, but I still end up catching my breath by the time I manage to reach his side. My...husband (how am I married just like that?) glances at me, and I feel so unfairly judged.
"What?"
He goes on walking without a single word in reply, and I'm now absolutely convinced I've not just married the king of the catacombs. Monsieur Le Dernier apparently also holds the world title to Rudest Man Alive.
The same limo awaits us by the sidewalk, a bulletproof monster that's transported us from warehouse to courthouse, and now, from courthouse to...hm.
"Where are we going?" I ask as soon as I hear the click of passenger doors locking, and the partition between us and his driver slides into place.
His dark blue eyes (why do they look so much like mine?) meet mine. "Home."
I'm about to ask where that is exactly when my husband, who remains the soul of rudeness, delivers his next blow.
"I am surprised at how remarkably...out of shape you are, considering your profession."
Every word, an insult, but wrapped in a silken drawl with a French-accented-ribbon on the top.
"Excuse me?" No, I don't just sound defensive. I am defensive, very much so.
"You must build your strength and stamina," he commands. "Tu comprends?"
I'm nineteen to his... what? Mid-thirties? The insult stings beyond belief, from one professional criminal to another.
"I am so sorry that you find me terribly lacking, monsieur."
(Ha!)
I incline my head to the side as I look at him musingly. "May I ask why, though? Does being the dutiful wife of a mob boss involve some heavy lifting? Will I need to help carry dead bodies to their final resting place?" I press my hand to my heart, eyes impossibly wide. "I should warn you, monsieur, I'm afraid I might be too delicate for such tasks. Though I suppose I could hold the rope when you're dangling someone over the Seine?"
"Non, ma petite." His lips curve as he says this, and I hate the way the mere sight of it has every inch of me tingling. "Nothing so pedestrian."
"Then pray tell me—"
My words stumble to a stop when I suddenly find myself right next to him, his hand tangling in my hair while the other slides along my collarbone.
"Non." My husband (will I ever get used to calling him this?) actually purrs the word out, and my senses start to spiral.
Oh dear.
"I think it is better that I show you instead."
His mouth finds the sensitive spot below my ear as he speaks, and I forget how to breathe. His teeth graze my skin, and my body arches toward him without my permission.
"You have too many clothes on, Liana."
A whimper spills past my lips. I'm equal parts terrified and shamefully excited. His words make me think he's about to undress me, but instead his hands slowly stroke over the silk of my wedding dress, and heat steals over my cheeks as I feel my flesh swell achingly under his touch.
This is the part where I should tell him we will not have this kind of marriage.
But when my lips part, no words of protest come out, and I only end up gasping as my husband's fingers trace the neckline of my dress...just before dipping inside of it. And when his thumb brushes directly across my lace-covered nipple—