Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63391 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63391 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
“Isaac,” she moans my name like it’s a confession. A surrender.
I grit my teeth. There’s no going back now. I adjust the toy’s angle, and she lets out a broken plea. Her hands twist in the sheets, her body grinding against the toy as she repeats my name over and over.
I can think only of how I won’t let this woman slip away. When she shatters, it’s exquisite. Silence in the air, thighs clenching, and then her whole body tipping over the edge before she crashes into pleasure with a cry that blends fury and euphoria and belongs solely to me.
I remove the toy and don’t touch her again, no matter how loudly my body screams at me. I want to leave her desperate, panting, hungry for more. I hope this moment sears itself into her brain the way it has into mine, so that whenever she remembers it, she can’t help wanting me.
But I won’t abandon her after the seismic shift between us. I lean in and press a chaste kiss to her forehead. Her body shifts, hands flexing as if to grab me, kiss me, tether me. Even now she fights the instinct and lets her arms fall. She says nothing and won’t meet my eyes, but I know my point is made.
I pull back, tucking the toy into the pocket of my slacks, and straighten. She opens her eyes and her mouth to argue, but I press a finger to her lips.
“As my wife,” I say quietly, “you won’t need this anymore.”
She stares up at me, panting, lips parted, eyes half-lidded.
I move toward the door. Just before I step out, I glance over my shoulder. “Feel free to text me any time.”
Then I leave her there, flushed, trembling, undone.
6
KATYA
Regret slams into me the moment I open my eyes. It isn’t the hangover, even though my head throbs and my mouth tastes of tequila and mistakes. The remorse is for what happened after the tequila. What felt so easy in the dark barrels back now that daylight has stripped away every excuse.
I let Isaac into my room and complied with his every wish like I couldn’t get enough of him. The heat between us flared even though our skin barely touched. The sound of my name on his lips. The weight of the vibrator in his hand. His smirk. His restraint. God, the restraint.
Isaac never laid a finger on me. He didn’t need to. He seized control anyway. Worst of all, my body liked it. No, it reveled in it. Without my permission I surrendered, craving him, unraveling for him.
I burrow beneath the covers and press my palms to my eyes, groaning. How could I have done that? Of all the men I’ve been with or ever wanted, he ranks dead last. Actually, he doesn’t even make the list.
I’ve fooled around before. I’ve sneaked men into this house while my father was gone, let them kiss me, touch me, taste me. But none of them ever made me feel the way Isaac did and none of them made my body betray me so completely. I came undone beneath a man I absolutely hate, and he didn’t even have to try. He never even broke a sweat.
I grit my teeth. That cocky bastard was so sure of himself. He stayed calm, maddeningly composed, as if he knew exactly how I’d respond, expected it, counted on it. That certainty makes me want to scream.
I should hate him. I do hate him. Yet my body missed the memo, trapping me in a filthy limbo between resentment and arousal, pride and submission. Something has to change. If I can’t win this war by resisting him, I’ll win it by ruining him.
It takes me exactly twenty-seven minutes to unearth the wedding-planner contact sheet in my father’s study. He’s so proud of himself, organizing this wedding like a proper mafia CEO playing house. I picture him bragging to Oleg over cigars and Scotch.
Barf.
I scroll through the names of the florist, caterer, venue coordinator, seamstress, designer, and even music director. Each one was handpicked by my father and Oleg, vetted for discretion and Bratva loyalty. Too bad none of them is prepared for a vindictive bride with a burner phone.
I call each one in turn, adopting a breezy, composed tone.
“Hi. Yes, this is Katya Belova. The wedding has been canceled for personal reasons. No, no need for refunds. The arrangements are no longer necessary. Thank you for your time.”
Some push back, confused and cautious. I silence them with authority and a sprinkle of false kindness.
It takes just under two hours to undo what took a week to build behind my back. My father arranged so much before he even had the consent of the bride and groom.
When the last call ends, I toss the phone into the trash and smile. Isaac Kozlov may think he’s marrying me in a week, but when the guests arrive at an empty venue that contained no food, no flowers, and no bride, he’ll wish he’d never said yes.