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The rest of the morning I spent reading Lena and Toni the riot act about what will happen to them if they allow Sophie to endure even a scratch on their watch.
I started the search for formidable female guards as soon as Sophie agreed to marry me. After three weeks of rigorous background checks and field testing, I picked the two I think will best protect my wife during the day whenever I’m not around.
While my male guards all know I would string them up by their balls if they looked at my wife wrong, I refuse to allow any of them to be alone with Sophie. Hell, I wouldn’t even trust Owen with her, and I trust him with my life.
I’ve had breakfast and am reading through messages on my phone, the article arranged by the PR firm announcing my and Sophie’s nuptials, when my new bride finally comes slinking down from her room in search of food. She walks right past the dining room before backing up to eye the buffet laid out on the table, her eyes skipping right over me.
“Help yourself,” I tell her when she just stands there in the doorway. Her black leggings and snug white tank top look so good hugging her curves that they should be illegal. Her eyes are puffy and red like she’s been crying either this morning or last night. Already homesick? Regretting her decision? I don’t like not knowing when and why she cried. I prefer when her tears are caused by me fucking her too hard.
Goddamm it. I have got to stop thinking about fucking her.
Her palm covers her wrist as if she hadn’t expected to run into me while wearing her bracelet, and she doesn’t want me to notice it. It’s impossible to miss so much bling that the reflection of light alone could probably create solar power.
“Did all of your belongings make it to your room?” I ask, rather than making a smug remark about how she likes the jewelry I bought her, or demand to know the list of shit that made her cry.
“Yes,” she answers as she comes over and picks up a plate to start filling it. “How did they get here before us last night?”
“Dante and I arranged for his staff and my own to pack it up and move it while we were getting ready for the ceremony.”
“What if I had backed out?” she asks, sneaking a quick glance at me before it returns to the fruit tray.
“Then they would’ve moved your shit back to Dante’s last night.” My words are clipped, remnants of irritation from having my dick throb all day and night for my wife’s pussy, without getting any fucking relief.
Trying to ignore those desires, I ask Sophie, “Did you sleep well?”
“I guess. Hard to fall asleep in a new place.”
“You would’ve slept better in my bed,” I promise her. “I would’ve made you come so many times you would’ve passed right out.”
I wait for her cheeks to redden, or for her to respond to my claim. Instead, Sophie takes a seat at the other head of the table, as far from me as possible, and asks, “What are my rules?”
“Your rules?”
“Yes.” She pops a grape into her mouth, then another. “Where can I go and when? Who can I see? That sort of thing.”
“You want rules?”
“I don’t want them, but I know there must be some.”
“Like your father had rules to keep you in the penthouse to ensure your safety?”
“Yes.”
I hadn’t yet thought of any rules. The guards I gave orders to—don’t let her get hurt or killed, don’t let anyone lay a finger on her.
Leaning back in my chair, I watch Sophie eat her breakfast, all prim and proper-like as I think it over, trying to come up with ideas that are of course, to my advantage.
“Fine. Here are my rules—we have breakfast together every morning and dinner together every night when I’m in town. You’re on your own for lunch.”
“Okay.”
“There will be some events I must attend, and, as my wife, you’ll go with me and smile for the cameras.”
“Like what kind of events?”
“Parties, fundraisers, networking. That sort of shit.”
She nods her head in agreement, and when I don’t add any others, she asks, “Do I have to stay in my room unless we’re eating or attending an event?” she asks softly.
