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Thirteen minutes and forty-three seconds.
Thirteen minutes and forty-three seconds of her wasting my damn time. She knows I’m sitting here. It’s pretty fucking hard to miss me since her waitress—Rochelle or Rachel or something like that—keeps coming over to my booth, pretending like she keeps forgetting things so she can flirt with me. Maybe if I flirt back, that’ll get Tara’s attention.
I doubt it though; she doesn’t seem into my charm like everyone else.
Tara keeps shooting daggers at her waitress, but hasn’t even glanced in my direction once. She’s constantly avoiding my glare, like I’m invisible. She’s the one who called to meet up, yet now she’s acting like I’ve got all the time in the world to watch her bus grimy tables in this shithole.
From the little time I’ve spent around her, I can tell she’s doing this to piss me off. My patience is thin and she’s snapping any little amount I have left. If she thinks she’ll be able to pull these petty little stunts once we’re married, she’s got another thing coming. No way will she defy me in public. Or ever.
She walks towards a table in the corner, swinging her hips so her round ass jiggles in those snug as fuck jeans. She starts blatantly flirting with a customer, putting her hands all over his arms and giving him fuck me eyes, pissing me off even more. I don’t have the time nor the patience to watch my future wife practically fuck some random guy in the middle of a restaurant. Maybe she needs a little lesson in just how important my time is.
After essentially dry humping that guy, she heads back toward her office. Sliding out from the booth, I follow her, watching her long black ponytail sway back and forth with each step. I’m so pissed at her that I’d love nothing more than to yank it back, wrap my hand around her throat, and remind her we’re playing by my terms—not hers.
She steps into her office, turning to shut the door behind her, but I push it open with my palm. Her eyes widen in surprise at the intrusion.
“I don’t like to be kept waiting.” I step closer to her, while she shuffles back until her legs press against her century-old desk. I’m surprised the thing’s not falling apart at the slightest touch.
Tara tilts her head up, looking at me with her tantalizing green eyes. The surprise at seeing me has been replaced by a teasing look. “I’ve been busy.” She smirks, thinking I’m joking.
“Never keep me waiting like that again,” I growl, enunciating each word so she hears me clearly. I’m not sure anything gets through that thick skull of hers. I barely know this woman, but I know a stubborn pain in the ass when I see one.
“Or what? You’ll spank me? Put me in time out? I’m shaking in my boots.” She laughs, condescendingly patting my chest. Grabbing her hand, I tug her wrist while I wrap my other hand around her neck. She looks so fragile under my touch, like I could easily snap her neck with the twist of my hand.
Her pupils dilate, making me pause. Is she into this? Moving closer, my mouth is only an inch away from her plump lips. Her breath mixes with mine, giving me a hint of her minty toothpaste. Heat radiates off her body, but she remains still, obviously trying to figure out what I’m going to do next.
“If you pull another stunt like that, you’ll be begging me to spank you after the agony I’ll put you through.” People learn quickly who owns the room when I’m around. I was raised to be cutthroat, to step on whoever I need to, to get what I want. No one defies me; no one controls me.
“You talk a big game, Your Highness.”
That stupid fucking nickname. She licks her lips, and her tongue almost brushes across my lip, purposely egging me on, trying to get me to snap. She seems to be trying to force my hand, pushing me into giving into my desire to bend her over this desk and spank her ass while I drive my dick into her. It won’t work.
My hand instinctively squeezes her throat, reminding her I’m in control here. “You’ll see soon enough.” I shove her back, before I drop my hands from her body, pulling out my handkerchief to wipe my hands off. The hard-on in my pants is a clear indication that I don’t mind having my hands on her, but I have to knock her down a level by pretending to wipe her away. “While we’re on the topic of things you won’t be permitted to do, you’ll never flirt with another man in public like that again. I’ll have him removed from the situation next time if you do.” I have an image to uphold and I can’t let her tarnish it by flirting with another man.
“Gonna have a Snake do your dirty work for you?” she taunts.
Someone’s done their research, I see.She doesn’t seem fazed by me representing a brutal gang with limited morality, or the fact that I just threatened another man’s life. “I’ll do it personally.”
I’ll get my hands dirty if I have to, especially on some scumbag who thinks he can flirt with Nix Taylor’s wife in public. Representing the Snakes isn't always the cleanest work—no matter how hard I try to keep it that way—so I have no problem taking matters into my own hands if I have to.
“Is someone a little jealous?” She grins up at me, like the cat that got the cream.
I quirk an eyebrow. I’d fuck her, sure, but I’d have to be remotely interested to feel jealousy. That’s not an emotion I possess. I’ve never been jealous of anyone or anything in my life, and I won’t start now.
“There’s nothing to be jealous of. My wife will be kept in line. You’ll be the perfect doting spouse, catering to my needs and quietly being on my arm when we’re in public. You also have an image to uphold, as you’ll be scrutinized at any given moment by my co-workers, by the public, and by women who want to be in your place. You’ll be the ideal trophy wife.”
Her eyes narrow, her cheeks reddening with rage. Sure, I sound like a misogynistic dick, but it’s what’s best for her. Even if her sass is annoying as fuck, I’d rather deal with that than a docile zombie who’d bore the hell out of me. But if I don’t act this way now, she’ll get eaten up by the sharks I surround myself with, and I also can’t have her threatening to kill someone at every turn. I’m just trying to make it through the year as smoothly as possible. I’m damn well going to get my father’s firm.
“I know we just recently met, but have I given you any impression I’ll be doing any of that?” She cocks her head, looking at me seriously.
“The additional document that accompanied the contract sets out in detail the duties that are expected of you. They made it clear what you’re obligated to do.” I know she read them. She might be a pain in the ass, but she’s smart. She wouldn’t blindly trust a man like me, that much is obvious. She’s clearly skeptical of me, probably pegging to be like every other rich asshole she’s met.
Our prenuptial contract vaguely references this secret accompanying contract so it’s not obvious that our marriage is fake. I know that Randall Crowe will be looking into our prenup, picking it apart word by word. I wrote it in there in such a way that it’s not obvious—probably also not the most legal, but I’ve never been one to uphold the rules to a T.
“Well, now that you mention your little contract, I’ve got some things that need to be discussed.”
I figured she’d fight some of the terms. I’d expect nothing less of this woman who already pushes my buttons. A prissy woman from the East Side would have gone along with anything I put in the contract, but I prefer the fight.
“The terms are fair.” They’re better than I’d typically give to anyone, making it nearly impossible for me to have any sort of failsafe.
