Page 2 of Devoured


Font Size:  

Seriously?

Could I subconsciously be hoping it works? Subconsciously hoping to entice my pretend husband, because I’d like to have one good sexual experience in my life?

Nah.

“You’re a psychologist.” I recap

the lipstick, toss it into my purse and fish out my phone. “You think everything is a Freudian slip.”

She reaches for the remote. “Probably because it is.”

I laugh at that, and just as I’m about to call my brother, someone raps on the door. My heart jumps into my throat and I spin.

“He’s here.”

Why the heck am I suddenly so nervous? I give myself a once-over in the mirror and smooth my hand over my long auburn curls. Should I have put my hair up? Maybe spent a little more time styling it? God, what am I doing? This isn’t a real date. This is just two people who are going to be spending time together, pretending to be married, getting the first meeting out of the way. During our flight tomorrow, we’ll have lots of time to work out the kinks... I mean details. Yeah, details. That’s what I mean, and kink was not a ridiculous Freudian slip. Not at all.

I don’t think.

“Are you going to answer the door?” Carly asks, and I take in her grin. I have no idea why she thinks this is anything more than an arrangement. It’s not.

I drop my phone back into my purse, and with a big smile on my face, I swing the door open. But as soon as I see the tall figure invading my front stoop, my jaw falls open, all pretense of happiness dissolving as I set eyes on none other than the big stupid jerk himself.

“What...what are you doing here, Roman?” I ask and try to glance around him, to see if my pretend husband is on his way, but his big, dumb body and impressive height fill my doorway and block everything else out—even the gigantic full moon.

“Well, hello to you, too, Peyton.”

I take a fast breath, but my lungs are tight, constricted. “Why are you here?” I ask, and hate that I sound like a damn chipmunk jacked up on Red Bull.

His dark gaze moves over my face and slips lower to take in my dress, and goddammit, my traitorous body warms in all the wrong places. This is the man who kissed me and then laughed in my face. Sure, we were at Sebastian and Rylee’s wedding, and the champagne had been flowing, but who does something like that? Who stares at me all night, turning my blood to molten lava, then plants the hottest, sexiest kiss on my lips, and walks away laughing?

A stupid jerk, that’s who.

I give him a once-over. It’s been a year since I set eyes on him, and I’m not sure how it’s possible but this updated version of the man I hate is filling me with unwanted images—of him slipping between my thighs and bringing me to orgasm. My sex clenches, an impatient reminder that I crave being touched—properly, just once—and standing before me is a delicious specimen who undoubtedly knows his way around a woman’s body.

You hate him, remember?

I shut down my overstimulated imagination and take in the tightness of his jaw, the rigid set of his muscles when he says, “I’m here to take you on a date and get to know you.”

I stand there immobilized, my lungs void of air as his words sink into my rattled brain. “Surely to God you’re not—”

“Your pretend husband?” He arches a brow. “Yeah, that’s me, and I apologize for being late,” he says, not looking one bit sorry at all. In fact, he looks completely pissed off, like he doesn’t like this situation any more than I do. “There was an issue.”

“An issue!” I say, my voice bordering on hysteria. “I’ll say there’s an issue.”

“Well, this just became interesting,” Carly mumbles under her breath as she turns the TV off and slips into the other room.

Interesting?

It’s anything but interesting. It’s a damn disaster. No way am I flying to Malta with Roman Bianchi and pretending to be married to him. I can’t stand the man. In fact, I hate everything about him. Except his face. Yeah, I don’t really hate that. And his body. That’s pretty banging, too. But his tailor-made suit, yeah, I hate that. I just don’t hate the way it highlights his broad shoulders and tight muscles, and reminds me my battery-operated boyfriend hasn’t been cutting it for some time now.

Good lord, Peyton. Get it together.

I close my eyes tight, hoping when I open them again he’ll be gone, his presence nothing but a figment of my imagination, but nooooo, when my lids snap open he’s still standing there, his gaze latched on mine. I swear to God, in the nanosecond I had my eyes closed, the man grew taller, broader...hotter.

“I take it your brother never told you he asked me.”

My gaze narrows on him. “This can’t be happening.”

Source: www.allfreenovel.com
Articles you may like