Billionaires: The Royal. Оливия Гейтс

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      She didn’t know. She had never done anything like this in her life. She despised this kind of behavior. This emotional, passionate, ridiculous behavior. She prized control. That was one of the many reasons she had agreed to marry Kairos. To avoid things like this. She respected him, and—once upon a time—had even enjoyed his company. Their connection had been based on mutual respect, and yes, on his need to find a wife quickly. This kind of thing, shouting and throwing things, had never come into play.

      But it was out of her control now. She was out of control.

      “Oh,” she said, feigning surprise, “you noticed me.”

      Before she could react, he closed the distance between them, wrapping his hand around her wrists and propelling them both backward until her butt connected with the edge of his desk. Rage radiated from him, his face, normally schooled into stone, telegraphing more emotion than she’d seen from him in the past five years.

      “You have my attention. So, if that is the aim of this temper tantrum, consider it accomplished.”

      “This is not a tantrum,” she said, her voice vibrating with anger. “This is the result of preparation, careful planning and no small amount of subterfuge. I went to a lawyer. These papers are real. These are not empty threats. This is my decision and it is made.”

      He reached up, grabbing hold of her chin, holding her face steady and forcing her to meet his gaze. “I was not aware that you had the authority to make decisions concerning both of us.”

      “That’s the beauty of divorce, Kairos. It is an uncoupling. That means I’m free to make independent decisions now.”

      He reached behind her, gripping her hair, drawing her head back. “Forgive me, my queen, I was not aware that your position in this country superseded my own.”

      He had never spoken to her this way, had never before touched her like this. She should be angry. Enraged. What she experienced was a different kind of heat altogether. In the very beginning, the promise of this kind of flame had shimmered between them, but over the years it had cooled. To the point that she had been convinced that it had died out. Whatever potential there was had been doused entirely by years of indifference and distance. She had been wrong.

      “I was not aware that you had become a dictator.”

      “Is it not my home? Are you not my wife?”

      “Am I? In any meaningful way?” She reached up, grabbing hold of his shirt collar, her thumb resting against the red smudge that marred the white fabric. “This says differently.” She pulled hard, the action popping the top button on the shirt, loosening the knot on his gray tie.

      His lip curled, his hold on her tightening. “Is that what you think of me? You think that I was with another woman?”

      “The evidence suggests her lips touched your shirt. I would assume they touched other places on your body.”

      “You think I am a man who would break his vows?” he asked, his voice a growl.

      “How would I know? I don’t even know you.”

      “You don’t know me?” His voice was soft, and all the deadlier for it. “I am your husband.”

      “Are you? Forgive me. I thought you were simply my stud horse.”

      He released his hold on her hair, wrapping his arm around her waist and drawing her tightly against his body. He was hot. Hard. Everywhere. The realization caused her heart rate to go into overdrive, her eyes flying wide as she searched his gaze. He was aroused by this. By her. Her circumspect husband who barely made a ripple in the bedspread when he made love to her was aroused by this.

      “And how can that be, agape? When you have not let me near you in almost three months?”

      “Was it I who didn’t let you near me, or was it you who didn’t bother to come to me?”

      “A man gets tired of bedding a martyr.”

      “A woman begins to feel the same,” she said, clinging to her anger, trying to ensure that it outstripped the desire that was wrapping itself around her throat, choking her, taking control of her.

      He rolled his hips forward, pressing his hardened length against her hip. “Do I feel like a martyr to you?”

      “I’ve always imagined it’s the bright future of Petras glowing in your mind’s eye that allows you to get it up when you’re with me.”

      He curled the hand pressed onto her back into a fist, taking a handful of material into his grasp and tugging hard. She heard the fabric tear as cool air blew across her now bare back. “Yes,” he said, the word dripping with poison. “I am so put upon. Clearly, the sight of your naked body does nothing for me.” He pulled her dress down, baring her breasts, covered only by the thin, transparent lace of her bra. “Such a hardship.”

      He leaned in, tilting his head, pressing a hot, openmouthed kiss to her neck, the contact so shocking, so unlike anything that had ever passed between them before, she couldn’t hold back the sharp cry of shock and pleasure.

      She planted her hands on his shoulders, pushing him away. “Who else have you done this with tonight? The woman with the red lipstick? Did you have her like this too? Am I benefiting from the education that she gave you?” He said nothing, he only looked at her, his dark eyes glittering. Her stomach twisted, pain, anger overtaking her. She grabbed hold of the knot on his tie, pulling hard until it came free. She tossed the scrap of silk onto the ground before grabbing hold of his shirt, wrenching it open, buttons scattering over the marble floor.

      She stopped, looking at him, her breath coming in short, hard bursts. He was beautiful. He always had been. She’d been struck by his sheer masculine perfection from the moment she’d first seen him. So young, so foolish. Nineteen years old, away from home for the first time, and utterly taken with her new boss.

      Of course, she had never imagined that a young American girl who had come to Petras on a study-abroad program would have a chance with the king of the nation.

      Oddly, he was almost more compelling now, in this moment, than he’d been at the first. She had slept with this man for five years. Had seen him naked countless times. The mystery should have been gone. She knew they didn’t light the sheets on fire, they never had. It was her, at least she imagined it was. He was her only lover, so she had no one else to compare it with.

      Apparently, he went out and found women with red lipstick, and things were different. He was different.

      Rage mingled with the sexual heat rioting through her.

      She ran her hands over his chest, the heat of his muscle and skin burning her palms. She should be disgusted by him. She shouldn’t want to touch him. Instead, she was insatiable for him. If he had been with another woman, then she would wipe her from his mind. Would erase her touch from his body with her own. She would do what she had not managed to do over the course of five years of marriage. She would make him crave her. Make him desire her.

      And then she would leave him.

      She leaned forward, parting her lips, scraping her teeth over his chin. He growled, pressing her up against the desk again, pushing her dress the rest of the way down her hips, allowing it to pool on the floor. She didn’t СКАЧАТЬ