Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 23250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
“I’ll-”
His fingertip drops over my mouth to silence me. “Don’t. Move.”
He steps away, and my body remains paralyzed in place. I watch Nero gingerly remove his jacket. His expensive cuff links. I nod silently when he asks for me to hold them and wordlessly stare during the meticulous peeling up of the sleeves of his dress shirt.
Tattoos momentarily flash in full as he saunters over to take a boxer stance in front of his victim.
Not wanting to see or hear what I have no doubt is in store, I shout, “I’m sorry, Mr. DeLuca!”
“I much prefer the phrase ‘I apologize’,” he states at the same time he meets my gaze. “It feels more submissive.”
“I apologize a thousand times, then!” The attempt at a smile falls from my lips once I see him doing the same.
Sadly, my apology and shot at humor are not enough to deter him from landing a punch in the man’s gut, reviving him from his unconscious state.
I look away. Shut my eyes. Pretend I can’t hear each blow being delivered or the breaking bones some of the strikes cause.
“This little piggy tested my patience, too,” Nero announces between additional pounds, stirring up the microwaveable diet-meal I ate for lunch. “Didn’t think to tell me sooner that the Feds not on the payroll have been putting their noses where they don’t belong.” Sounds of a fist landing into flesh occur again and again and again. “He made a pricey mistake!”
Another round of beating begins and between Nero’s grunts of frustration and the man’s begging groans around the wet, blood noises, I can barely keep down the bile that’s burning my throat.
Without warning, all of the violent banging ceases, and I look over just in time to see Nero taking a steaming hand towel from his henchman. “Thank you, Mickie.”
“Of course, Boss.”
The drop-dead gorgeous nutcase I made the mistake of pissing off gently washes away any remains of blood from his fingers while callously insisting, “I feel better.”
He offers the soiled towel to Mickie who immediately transfers it into his grip for disposal.
“Have we learned our lesson, Elle?”
“I’ll wear the-”
Nero unexpectedly unholsters his weapon and fires three consecutive rounds right into the limp head of his human punching bag.
The end of my sentence is barely spoken due to the tears and vomit mixing in my throat, “Shoe.”
He puts away the freshly fired gun, spins on his heels, and arrogantly coos under his breath as he passes by, “Good girl.”
Chapter Three
Nero
I know marriage isn’t easy, but I thought for sure a forced, fake one wouldn’t be so difficult.
Elle’s beautiful, brown-skinned face tilts in what I hate is becoming my favorite fashion. “You gonna help me or what?”
“No.”
She rolls her eyes and wiggles her toes – a delightful tick that never fails to get my dick stirring. “Why not?”
“Because I’m a grown ass man, and building sandcastles is juvenile.”
“I could bury you in the sand instead.”
Her snarky retort receives a small smirk.
Not only did the shoe fit, but I couldn’t ignore the unusual relief in my chest when it did. It was almost as if I would’ve been…disappointed…if it didn’t. Which would be some bullshit. I have no attachments to this woman. No genuine cares or concerns. She is a means to an end – an end her stepfather created without proper permission.
I could’ve done without my share of the inheritance or at least had no pressing need for it if it weren’t for his fuckup. His fuckup becomes my fuckup. And my fuckup is costly to the family – and we can’t have that.
“Fine, don’t help with this,” she offhandedly states while leaning over to drive the little shovel into the sand. “But you do need to help with what I’m supposed to tell people at our wedding reception tonight.”
It takes divine intervention to pull my gaze away from where her tits are pouring out of her designer, baby blue bikini top. “Regarding?”
“Uh…how about all the basics?” She sassily reports during the scooping up of sand. “How’d we meet? How long we’ve been together? How’d you propose? Why’d we elope?” Her initial mad rush of questions is followed by her dumping said sand into a nearby bucket. “What’s your favorite food? What’s your favorite color? T.V. show? Movie? Childhood celebrity crush?”
“Paula Abdul.”
My comment causes her to cease all movements to shoot me an amused grin. “Really?”
“Oh yeah.” Reaching over to grab the other shovel to begrudgingly assist in this childish task, I return the question, “You?”
“DiCaprio.”
It’s my turn to roll my eyes, and not just because I’d sink his ass on another ship if he came anywhere near my wife.
Fake wife.
We’re pretending, but that doesn’t mean I’d be okay with her fucking one of America’s most famous actors while we’re together for the next few months. I have to keep my dick in this marriage – per the non-cheating clause in the will – therefore, she should have to keep her legs closed. Unless it’s to me. And fuck, I would love her luscious legs splayed wide open for me. We’ve only been “together” one week, and I’m already losing my fucking mind and fighting blue balls from watching her do sexy shit. The lacy pajamas she flounces around the house in have me jerking off before morning meetings, and getting a glimpse of her ass when the wind blows her summer dresses up has me damn near begging for her to lend a hand to alleviating the pressures in my nuts.