Page 164 of Gilt

“Small talk about the decor isn’t a hot conversation starter.”

If he’s trying to up the alert level of my fury, he’s doing a damn good job.

“I don’t want to fight with you,” he says in a soft voice.

“Your mom is pissed, isn’t she?” I guess. When he nods, I wish a sinkhole would form and swallow me alive.

“Not at you,” he clarifies when he sees my expression.

“If she’s mad at you, then it’s because of me.”

He doesn’t bother to challenge that assumption. “I knew we would get flack for being engaged. This will pass.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t…” I twist the ring he’s given me around until it reaches my knuckle but he strides over and pushes it back down my finger.

“That’s your birthday present,” he reminds me.

“It’s a whole lot more than a birthday present.” Staring at it, I wonder how such a little thing can mean so much. Then I remember the price tag and the disdainful look in Monroe’s eyes when she called me a gold-digger. “I don’t need a ring. I’m not really the jewelry type.”

I fail to add that every girl I know is the diamond type, even if they’ve never owned so much as a friendship bracelet before.

“Duchess, I want you to wear it.” He leans over the bed and tilts my chin up with his finger. “It’s important to me, and since you won’t marry me yet, let’s call it a compromise.”

I narrow my eyes at him. He’s not fighting fair. How am I supposed to say no with those silvery-gray eyes gazing into mine? It’s not even a discussion. “I thought we were calling it a present.”

Jameson laughs, slipping his hands under the collar of my robe and gently shucking it free from my shoulders. I allow the sleeves to slide off my arms, and the garment falls off, pooling behind me. His eyes stay glued to mine even as his jaw twitches. “I’ve been imagining that ring—and only that ring—on you since I bought it.”

“And aren’t you going to look?” I purr. I’m not entirely certain if I’ve won or lost this argument, but I can’t seem to care.

His gaze sweeps over me, leaving goosebumps in its wake. I drape my arm over my bare hip and put his ring on display. He lingers on it, and with each passing second, my pulse ratchets up in speed. Finally, I reach up and grip his shirt, urging him to join me on the bed. As I unbutton it, his face slants down, nuzzling into the curve of my neck.

“It’s not just a present,” he whispers.

My answer catches in my throat. “I know.”

He pulls back and studies me for a moment. “You don’t have to wear it.”

I cup his face with my palm and smile shyly. “I think I want to. I just never expected to have something so…”

Extreme? Expensive? Unexpected? I can’t find the right word.

“It’s a ring fit for a duchess.” But Jameson understands. Taking my hand in his, he lays me across the bed. “For my Duchess.”

Biting my lip, I marvel as his body moves against mine, slowly pushing all my doubts away.

The next morning I’m alone in bed, stretching my muscles. Is everyone this gloriously sore after sex? Or has Jameson West cornered the market on wearing a girl out? Either way, I’m not complaining. I find a note next to a fresh pot of coffee in the living quarters.

Dealing with fall-out. Call me when you’re up.

Love,

Jamie

I take a risqué selfie instead. His response is immediate, and I answer the phone as soon as it begins to vibrate.

“Thank God you’re eighteen,” he says gruffly.

“Why are you whispering?” I ask, unintentionally lowering my own voice.