The bed creaks, and the noise scrapes across my brain.
“Shhh!” I hiss as I roll away for the sound, dragging the blanket over my head.
There’s a masculine chuckle, followed by a groan. “Why did it have to be tequila?”
“Don’t say tequila,” I moan.
I try not to listen to King as he walks across the room, the noise of the door clicking open enough to make me want to cry.
When blissful silence falls over me, I lay as still as possible. Hoping that the hangover can only see you if you move.
Last night was…hot. It was so super hot.
It’s a little bit blurry, but I remember being wildly turned on, and clinging to King like my life depended on it as he fucked me into oblivion.
I should probably stop happily fucking my jailor.
The details after that are a little fuzzier. But I know we stumbled upstairs together, and…did we brush our teeth together?
Why does that seem like a big thing?
I lift the blanket and glance down at my…naked body.
Okay. So, I slept in the nude.
I hope we didn’t walk through the whole house like that.
The sound of footsteps in the room has me dropping the blanket. And the small amount of sun creeping in from behind the curtains has me slapping my hands over my eyes.
Something gets set down on the nightstand next to my side of the bed, and I part my fingers to peek out.
“Drink this.” King nods to the glass of murky water. “And take these, before you go back to sleep.” He sets some pills down next to the glass. “It’ll help.”
I eye him for a moment, recognizing the signs of an equally hungover person. “Are you coming back to bed?”
He gently shakes his head. “I have a couple calls I need to take.”
I close one eye. “For your finance business or your nefarious business?”
King smirks. “Finance. But since I enjoy being nefarious…”
Before I can guess what he’s about to do, King yanks the blanket off me.
Cold air rushes in, chilling every inch of my naked body.
“Ahh!” I dart my hand out, managing to catch the edge. King lets go and I glare at him as I roll, cocooning myself back into the warmth. “You’re a dick,” I snap at him, lacking heat.
He saunters to the closet, laughing. “It’s always about the dick with you.”
My gaze snags on his perfect ass in gold silk boxers, and my eyes narrow. “Did you go downstairs like that?”
There’s a moment before he reappears, pulling on a pair of sweatpants. “Yeah. Why?”
A glance at the clock tells me that Cici would already be in the kitchen making food for the day.
“Well, don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
He’s being obstinate on purpose; I just know it. “Don’t walk around the house in your underwear like a five-year-old. It’s tacky.”
“Tacky,” he repeats, and I want to slap the smug look off his face.
I know it’s ridiculous to be annoyed over this, considering we had sex in a room of windows last night, but I don’t like the idea of other women seeing him like that. Not out of the moment.
But if he wants to play hardball…
I shove the blankets off, and force my queasy stomach to chill as I stand. “Fine, if we’re just walking around naked…” I trail off and make for the door.
Not wanting to actually walk around naked––and not willing to look deeper into why I’m feeling so jealous and territorial over this stupid man––I’m thankful when I only make it three steps before a hand grips my arm. “Just try it, Wife.” All the humor has left King’s voice. “I’ll agree to wear pants when I leave this room––”
“And a shirt,” I interrupt him, not turning to make eye contact.
His fingers flex, and his bare chest presses into my side. “But if you ever walk out of this room bare, showing off the pussy that belongs to me…” his breath tickles my neck as he leans closer. “I wasn’t lying about killing any man who sees what’s mine.” His hand releases my arm. “Deal?”
I have to wet my lips to reply, “Deal.”
“Good,” a hand swats my ass and I yelp. “Now quit distracting me, I have to work.”
I purposefully don’t think about what he sees as I hurry my bare self to the bathroom.
But before I close the door, I leave it cracked open so I can watch King pull a plain white t-shirt on.
It stretches over his broad chest, and I think this is the first time I’ve seen him dressed like a regular everyday person. Up until this moment it’s only been suits, boxers, or naked.
And I want to hate that he looks so goddamn good in this too, because it’s simply not fair. But since I get to appreciate the view, I guess I won’t complain.
“Don’t forget your drink, Savannah.”
Caught.
“‘kay,” I mumble my agreement. Then wait until he’s out of the bedroom, and the door is shut, before I dart back to the nightstand and grab the glass and pills.
I spot some green paint on the side of my pointer finger, so I rub it off onto my flannel before pressing the button that will grind the espresso beans.
I made Cici show me how to use this fancy machine after having one of her lattes this morning.
The drink––that tasted like cherries––that King gave me this morning, plus painkillers and a hot shower, went a long way to making me feel human. But now, after spending a few hours working on a new canvas, I’m in need of an afternoon caffeine boost.
The grinder rumbles to life and the scent of freshly ground beans fills the air.
“It’s shit like this…” I murmur to myself with a wry smile.
Because it’s shit like this that could make a girl give up the fight entirely.
I mean honestly, what would I even do with my old life after all of this.
Just as I’m thinking that, the doorbell rings and my mind immediately jumps to Aspen.
Ah, yes, the downside of this new life––a sister-in-law that wants to murder me.
I stand still for a moment.
Is someone else going to get that?
Am I supposed to be answering the door?
But I know King said he’d be busy today. And I haven’t seen any of the staff in a while…
With a groan, I trudge through the house.
“Don’t worry, I got it,” I say to no one.
With King dressed down, I didn’t feel weird putting on my usual painting clothes–– leggings, bare feet––because it makes me feel grounded, a tank top with a built in support layer. I can’t be artistic while wearing a bra and an oversized black and white flannel buttoned most of the way up. I don’t like wearing aprons and I’ve found it’s just easier to have one shirt I can constantly wipe my paint-hands on, rather than ruining half my wardrobe. But now, as I approach the front door, I’m wishing I’d worn something else. Because it’s one thing to be hated. It’s another thing to be hated while looking like a slob.
Bracing myself, I unlock the deadbolt on the front door and swing it open.
And come face to boobs with…not Aspen.
I really gotta stop assuming it’s her. I’m zero for two.
“Um, hi,” I greet the woman.
“Hello,” she smiles, and I can’t help smiling back.
She looks like a politician, wearing a navy-blue skirt suit that hugs all her curves. And there’s a lot of them. Honestly, she’s built like me, only six feet tall.
I step back and hold an arm out to welcome her in. With a gated driveway and a crew of armed security, I figure she has to be a known person around here or else they wouldn’t have let her just come to the door by herself.
And with the professional way she’s dressed, I’m guessing it’s some sort of business meeting.
Hopefully King went up and changed while I was in the studio, or else this is going to be awkward for him.
But since I think King is still in his office, and I don’t know the protocol of bringing people to him or making them wait, I figure I can do my wifely duty and entertain her.
“I think King is still on a call, but I was just about to make a coffee, if you’d like one?”
“That’d be great, thank you.”
I admire her nice manners as I admire her walking before me.
This lady struts like the plus-size runway models I follow online.
What I would give to be able to walk like that in heels that high.
I follow her to the kitchen, proving that this isn’t her first time here.
When I circle around the large island to remove the fresh espresso, I notice the little clutch purse she sets down on the counter, and suddenly I have my first doubt.
On the surface, a clutch purse is normal. Even one that looks like a real Prada. But would you really only bring a clutch to a business meeting?
I mean, I know I’m from the art world, not corporate whatnot, but even I would bring a notebook with me when I’d meet with a potential new gallery.
The woman––and I realize now we never exchanged names––pulls her phone out of the clutch and starts tapping on the screen. Clearly planning to entertain herself while I make her a coffee.
A knot forms in my stomach.
I shouldn’t have let her into my house.
There’s a loud clatter when I drop the metal espresso thing on the marble counter, spilling ground coffee everywhere.
My house?
Did I really just think of this place as my house?
“Oh, dear, are you okay?”
“Yep!” Embarrassment floods my cheeks.
I don’t really know what’s going on, but it’s nothing good.
And now I look clumsy, on top of looking like a clueless slob.
I’m brushing the espresso grinds off the counter into my palm when I sense movement at the entrance to the kitchen.
“Everything okay in here?” King’s eyes are on me, and there’s a soft smile on his lips I don’t know what to do with.
But before I have time to overthink his expression, it changes.
I don’t think I’ve seen King surprised before, but I’m seeing it now.
His steps slow and his eyes widen slightly as his gaze snaps over to the movement on the other side of the island. On the side nearest him.
“Hey, Baby,” the bombshell greets him.
My fist closes around the grinds. Baby?
King is still frozen. “Andrea, how did you get in here?”
Andrea lets out a throaty chuckle, like he’s being playful.
But I can hear the warning in his tone, even if she can’t.
“I wanted to stop in to surprise you.” She waves one manicured hand in my direction as she closes the distance to him, “Your new housekeeper let me in.”
This bitch.
I shove my hands onto my hips, forgetting my palm was full of finely ground coffee, and it falls to the floor around me, landing on top of my bare feet and getting between my toes.
Well, isn’t that just perfect.
As I stand here, seething, I can’t help but remember the comment King made while he was kidnapping me, about liking ‘em heavy. If this is one of his fuck buddies then I guess he was telling the truth, and I can stop worrying if I’m actually his type or not.
Not that he’s given me any reason to doubt the way he feels about my body.
Andrea stops right in front of him, and with her heels she’s only an inch or two shorter than King.
But, even with their similar statures, they don’t match. Because King is still in sweats and a white t-shirt, so no matter how glam this cunt is, right now, he looks like he belongs with me.
Apparently, she’s thinking the same thing, because she gives him a once over. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you looking so relaxed.”
When she lifts her hand, like she’s going to press it against his chest, I reach back and wrap my fingers around the heavy, metal espresso thing from where I dropped it on the counter, ready to chuck it. Not caring which one of them it hits.
But King’s not looking at her, he’s looking at me.
And the fucker is smiling.
I lift it higher, only stopping myself when he sidesteps her touch. Andrea’s fingertips barely brush against his shoulder as he strides toward me.
“Not my housekeeper,” he states.
I lower the weapon to my side, just as Andrea whirls around to follow his steps.
“This isn’t my housekeeper,” King repeats, not stopping until he’s at my side, where he drapes his warm arm across my shoulders. “This is my wife.”
Andrea laughs, but it sounds forced. “Wife? You’re joking.” She spares me a glance, “No offense.”
Lots taken, hoebag.
She’s back to where she started, on the other side of the island. But when she moves like she’s going to circle around to our side, I tighten my grip on the coffee thing.
King’s fingers spread across my shoulder, like he knows what I’m thinking and is ready to hold my arm down. “Not joking.”
Her mouth moves, her expression changing between hurt and anger. “But you said you weren’t interested in marriage.”
“I wasn’t.” I feel King shrug next to me and I feel the smallest twinge of sympathy for the woman across the counter.
I’ve been on her side of things; the I’m not looking for a relationship only to be dumped for someone else side. So, I get it. It sucks. And King and I… Well, it’s not like this was a whirlwind love match. It was a whirlwind murder/kidnapping/blackmail match.
The woman scoffs, looking me up and down. “For her?”
Okay, sympathy gone. Get fucked, Andrea.
“That’s enough,” King growls.
“But––” Andrea starts.
“No,” he cuts her off. “What we had was nothing. Nothing to get upset over. Nothing worth mentioning. And if you insult my wife again, I won’t stop her from throwing that at you.” He nods down to my hand. “And I can tell you from personal experience that her aim is solid.”
