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That’s where’s she wrong. It is my business. She has no idea. “You slept with someone. I’m not taking chances.”
“How about you?” she hisses. “How many women shared your bed?”
“None that matter,” I assure her.
“Plenty of them, then,” she concedes with a scowl. “Are you clean?”
“I already had tests done. I’m happy to share the results with you.”
“What did he inject me with?” she asks, regarding me with furious mistrust. “Why wouldn’t he tell me?”
“A vitamin shot. You’ve been through a lot of stress, which lowers immunity. I don’t want a weak woman in my bed.” I brush a thumb over my lips as I caress her face with my gaze. “I’m demanding.”
“Go to hell,” she grits out.
“Are you insulted that I had you tested or angry that your place in my bed is a foregone conclusion?”
She utters a cry of frustration. “You’re a real macho guy, aren’t you?”
“A sexist, hypocrite, and a macho guy,” I say, quoting her insults with a mocking smile. “You’re not going to bed with a good man, sweetheart, but I promise my skills are faultless. Your pleasure is guaranteed.”
She looks as if she may punch me. “I doubt I’ll enjoy it.”
“Oh, you will. That’s a promise.”
“You’re a beast,” she says, clenching and unclenching her fingers.
Her obvious distaste at the idea of sleeping with me bothers me more than it should. It makes me angrier. Spiteful. I’m saying things I shouldn’t, things like, “The other women don’t complain. They like my performance in bed. In fact, they beg for my cock.”
She narrows her pretty eyes. I take note of how much greener they are when she’s vexed.
“You know what?” she says. “Let’s just get this over with.”
“Now?” I ask, raising a brow.
“Right now.”
“Are you asking me?” I taunt.
Trembling with anger, she says, “I’m telling you.”
“Telling me what?”
She clenches her jaw. “To fuck me.”
I cross my arms. “Beg.”
“What?” she cries out.
“I said you’d beg, didn’t I?”
“Son of a—” She swallows her words, staring at me with hatred simmering in the depth of her pretty eyes. “Fine. Humiliating me can’t be worse than fucking you. Please, Roman.” She bats her eyelashes and says with a mock-pleading intonation, “Please, fuck me.”
My dick grows hard in a second flat. It’s not the reaction I was aiming for, but those wicked words, even if she doesn’t mean them, do things to me, things that frighten me, and it takes a fucking lot to scare me.
“However disappointing the wait is going to be for me, I have to decline,” I say. “We won’t fuck until your medical results come back.”
Tears glisten in her eyes, making them sparkle even more. They’re not tears of sorrow. They’re tears of indignation. It’s what I wanted. I wanted to punish her for making it so obvious how little she wants me, but now that those crystal droplets roll over her cheeks, I don’t like the sight of them on her face. I don’t like the way she makes me feel, like a jerk, even if the label is spot-on.
“Forget about going to hell,” she says. “Better yet, go fuck yourself.” Turning on her heel, she marches to the stairs.
“Soon,” I call after her, getting in the last word just because that’s what jerks do. “After the turn-on of you begging so sweetly, I’ll definitely jerk off in the shower.”
She flips me the bird from over her shoulder. My lips stretch into a grin. I like that she doesn’t let me walk over her. I already appreciate her, but this makes me respect her. I need a woman who puts me back in my place. And just like that, with a crude sign, she conquers my unobtainable heart.
CHAPTER 13
Christina
The results come the next day. Roman brings the paper to the TV room where I’m standing in front of the bookshelf, studying the titles without seeing them. When he pushes the paper into my hands, I read the text on autopilot.
I’m clean. Not pregnant.
Lowering the paper, I stare at the title embossed in gold on the spine of the book on my eye level.
Les Pierres Précieuses d’Afrique du Sud.
I’m on birth control. Bell has contraceptive injections administered every three months, making sure I won’t fall pregnant.
There’s no more reason to hold back.
I agreed. I begged.
Roman got what he wanted, just like he promised. He was right when he said my place in his bed was a foregone conclusion. He had time to devise this plan, time to prepare himself for the slaughter. I’ve only had a couple of days to process it and to prepare myself. Can anyone ever be prepared for this? I square my back. I’ll be damned before I show him how much the idea terrifies me. He should’ve just done it when I was angry. My anger always douses my fear.
“It’s French,” I say, stalling for a few moments to gather myself.
