Page 11 of Fake Fiancé, Real Wedding
I look amazing, and I want him to see me like this. My double Ds are almost spilling out of the black corset of my punk fairy costume, and my torn fishnet stockings scream sex vixen ready to slay.
I want him to lust after me. To lose control of himself. To throw me against a wall, a counter, a bed, and have his wicked way with me.
It’s more than that. You want him to fall in love with you. To never want to leave your…
My breath catches in my throat, and my mouth falls open. “Good gravy,” I whisper.
Lachlan is striding toward us.
“What?” Stevie frowns, pivoting in her seat to look over her shoulder. “Oh,” she says on a chuckle. “I see.”
Gone are the faded denim jeans and snug white T-shirt. Replacing both are a pair of charcoal chinos that should come with a strictly 18+ advisory warning and a black Henley that makes the chinos look prudish. His hair is tousled, like hands have clawed through the dark strands over and over. His jaw isdark with a stubble I want to feel against my inner thighs, and on his face sits a pair of gold-rimmed glasses.
Liquid hunger pools between my legs. My clit prickles with a rush of blood and lust. My nipples bead.
The man trulyissex incarnate.
God, I want him. Now. Hard. Fast. Slow. I don’t care how. I just want him.
Snagging an empty chair, he drops himself into it at our table, leans forward—elbows on knees—and pins me with those gray eyes of his from behind pristine lenses. “Hi, future wife. Can we talk?”
Chapter Eight
Lachlan
Ten minutes away from Del.
That’s all it took.
Ten minutes of pacing my suite, pretending I was agitated and nervous about the impending contract exchange, before I accepted the purchase of Cloudkiss hadnothingto do with my mental, emotional and—fuck it—physical state.
Del was the reason.
I couldn’t get her out of my head.
After ten minutes of not being in her company, I felt like a part of me had gone AWOL.
I missed her. I missed looking at her, I missed not being the recipient of her snark, her bite, her smile…
I’d taken a long, ice-cold shower, dealt with thehardsituation between my legs with a pumping grip that was borderline brutal, and then thrown on a fresh set of clothes.
I’d always planned to stay the night. Just hadn’t planned to spend it aching for a young woman who may or may not bolt the next time she saw me.
Thirty minutes later, dressed and still on edge, I’d tried not to let my gaze linger on the massive four-poster bed and deep claw-footed tub big enough for two as I exited my suite.
Beryl hadn’t lied. Itwascozy luxury. It was all too easy to see Del in it with me, stretched out on the bed, hair a wild mess of honey-blond waves around her head, or in the bath, bubbles kissing her naked body the way I want to.
That image—Del wet and glistening, teasing me with her gorgeous eyes and bare shoulders—refused to leave me as I stomped around Cloudkiss’s restaurant and gardens looking for her.
And then I saw her.
She was sitting at a table looking like the sexiest fucking punk-rock fairy, with dark sooty eyeshadow, black wings, ripped fishnet stockings, and a black corset struggling to contain her spectacular boobs…
Fuck. Me.
It took every ounce of control I had not to stride over, throw her over my shoulder, carry her to my suite—oursuite—and claim her.
Make her mine.
