Dallas Townsend reminded me of a phoenix, rising from the ashes of her poor decisions. An inspiration to the idling masses.
In tonight’s episode, Shortbread drank herself into a stupor.
Ever since I’d broken the tragic news of our impending luxurious honeymoon, she’d guzzled down champagne, slurring her thanks to our guests while zigzagging through the room.
Aside from her agreeable looks, I’d met office furniture more lovely to spend time with.
It didn’t help that she embarrassed us both by channeling her inner designated drunk aunt at a Christmas dinner, babbling loud enough to be heard from the South Pole.
Her family didn’t interfere with the spectacle. Shep conducted business, whereas Natasha dedicated all her efforts into finding a suitable match for the other menace she’d spawned.
And Franklin…
Franklin knew exactly how drunk Dallas was. She let it happen, aware that I was allergic to public scandals.
That I managed to shuttle Shortbread into my private jet without losing an eye was nothing short of a miracle.
We were Paris-bound, and the excitement level sat somewhere between a three-day-long calculus marathon and a funeral.
“I think I’m going to throw up,” Dallas announced, clutching her stomach, still in her bridal gown.
Her face was extraordinarily green for someone who wasn’t the Grinch.
“Shocking.” I flipped the page of my newspaper.
She moaned, tossing her head back on the headrest. “I’m pretty sure I’m about to vomit on this dress.”
It appeared as though she suffered from alcohol poisoning. Just when I thought choosing unattractive, sixty-something pilots would ensure an event-free journey.
I dog-eared a page and moved onto the next. “No need to narrate your existence aloud. Truly, no part of me cares.”
“Aren’t you going to help me?”
“No.”
“Well, then. I guess I’ll just puke all over your private jet and stink it to eternity.”
With a groan, I slid off my seat and hoisted her up in my arms, carrying her to the bathroom honeymoon-style.
She was lifeless in my embrace. I wondered if it’d be a good idea to make a U-turn so I could get her straight to the hospital.
Then, in her signature Shortbread whine, she issued demands. “Make sure you pull all my hair up so nothing gets stuck on it…oh, and the dress. Take my dress off.”
The privilege. The sass. The blind belief that the world owed her something. She was fine.
“Try not to drink like the future of this nation depends on it next time.”
I plopped her on the floor before we reached the toilet, flipped her on her stomach, and began unfastening her dress. And there was a lot of dress to get rid of.
She swam in fabric. It took ten minutes to release her from the buttons, zippers, and frills.
Dallas being Dallas, she wiggled, clawing at the thin carpet. “Faster! I can’t hold it in anymore.”
“Is everything okay?” The stewardess poked her head in from the kitchen, where she prepared fresh fruit and mimosas.
It must have looked like I was wrestling a wild boar from that angle.
“Yes.”
“Excuse me, sir, but it doesn’t look—”
“Am I paying you for your eyesight or to clean my toilets and prepare my snacks? While we’re at it, toss the mimosas in the garbage. The last thing my wife needs is more alcohol in her bloodstream.”
All my employees, top to bottom, signed NDAs. A favorable arrangement, seeing as my manners lacked without a Bloomberg Finance mic directed straight to my face.
When Dallas finally escaped her dress, clad only in a strapless beige bra and matching thong, I rolled the elastic off her wrist and tried tying her hair up.
“No time!” She punched me in the face, frantic. “I need to puke.”
I dragged her to the bathroom, flipped open the toilet, and gathered her hair in my hand from behind while balancing her with my other palm.
She began projectile vomiting everywhere. As I towered over her, cradling her head so she wouldn’t break her spine and introduce me to a world of legal pain, I questioned what kind of idiot married a woman like her.
I was normally ruthlessly rational. What on Earth made me think this was a good idea?
Even sticking it to Madison Licht wasn’t a good enough reason. Shortbread was the human answer to a category-six hurricane. Whatever she touched, she destroyed.
After a few minutes of emptying her gut, she collapsed into a ball on the floor, hugging the toilet. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her hue shifted from green to dead white.
I escaped the bathroom to bring her water and Advil, purely because I didn’t want our next stop to be an emergency one at an Irish hospital.
She accepted my offerings without gratitude.
After washing down the pills, she shot me a glare. “Why didn’t you bring my toothbrush and toothpaste?”
“For the same reason I haven’t drawn you a bath and trimmed your toenails. I’m not your maid.”
I tossed her empty water bottle in the trash. Not even Oliver had gotten this level of care from me when he’d shown up on my steps shit-faced after a Porcellian Club initiation at Harvard.
She scowled at me through bloodshot eyes, still on the floor. “My mouth reeks.”
“The rest of you is not so attractive, either.”
“Toothbrush.”
“Manners,” I instructed in the same grating tone.
“Screw you.” Perhaps she considered this a step up, since she didn’t scrape my eyes out while she said it.
“Regretfully, I decline. I’ll be reading the Wall Street Journal outside.” I strode away.
“This is all your fault,” she cried to my back. “I wouldn’t have gotten drunk if it weren’t for you.” I didn’t break my pace. “Oh, fine. Please, give me my toothbrush. Happy now?”
I wasn’t happy now.
I probably wouldn’t be happy ever after my unfortunate decision to marry this woman.
But apparently, I’d found my heartless sociopath limit, because I hauled myself to her suitcase, fished out a pack of toothbrushes along with a tube of Colgate, and brought them to Dallas.
I let her shower, brush her teeth, and get back to herself while I skimmed financial news in my seat, sipping lukewarm coffee.
She emerged thirty minutes later, hair damp and face scrubbed pink, wearing an MIT hoodie she must’ve stolen from my suitcase.
She seemed grumpy and dazed as she fell onto the couch beside me, digging into the fresh fruit and banh mi.
From the corner of my eye, I watched her polish off two trays of sandwiches and a Diet Coke.
Once she finished, she peered around and sighed. “I’m not tired.”
I kept my eyes trained on the newspaper. Maybe if I didn’t move, she’d think I was dead and stop talking.
“Let’s make out.”
Since she was still obviously and acutely drunk, and because eau de vomít wasn’t a scent I found personally enchanting, I ignored her less-than-stellar offer.
“Come on.” Shortbread jumped to her bare feet, padding to me. She flicked the newspaper in my hand away and straddled me. “I’m actually tanked up enough to tolerate you right now. This is a once-in-a-lifetime offer. Maybe getting an orgasm will help me fall asleep.”
She draped her arms around my neck.
“Give me one reason to help you.”
She offered a toothy grin. “Happy wife, happy life?”
Something occurred to me then.
“Have you ever had an orgasm?”
“I think I accidentally gave myself one a year ago.” Her big, innocent eyes widened.
It was in moments like this when I remembered what had lured me into stealing her.
Where else in America could I unearth a twenty-one-year-old that was such a blank page for me to doodle, scribble, and mold as I pleased?
I gave Oliver a lot of grief for finding her sister alluring, but frankly, Dallas was just as virginal and off-limits. Still so sheltered from the outside world.
That piqued my curiosity. “Doing what?”
“Riding a dirt bike.”
I flattened my lips so as not to laugh.
“Don’t laugh.” She furrowed her brows, slapping my chest. “My whole family was there. A moan slipped out, and Momma thought I sprained my ankle. I had to pretend it did hurt and even faked a limp for an hour. It was very distressing.”
Was I really about to laugh for the first time since age four because of this little headache?
“Get off my lap.”
“Or you could get me off on your lap.” She wiggled her brows. And her ass.
“You’re too drunk. Not to mention, I’m not drunk enough.”
Her intoxication was the only thing standing in my way of making her come on my fingers.
Sadly, the fact that I’d seen that mouth purge out fully digested pieces of macarons, tarts, and custards did not deter me from wanting it wrapped around my cock.
I didn’t usually lower my standard to breathing: optional—that was more Ollie’s jam—but I found Shortbread strangely seductive.
When Shep had told me his daughter was irresistible, I’d wanted to chuckle. Now I was more worried than amused.
“Can’t you see? Me being drunk is the best thing that could happen to us.” She slapped her hands over my chest. “Let’s have sex. I won’t even mind that it’s with you. And I’ve been wanting to lose my V-card for a while.”
Now wasn’t the time to tell her that her V-card would be wasted on my fingers—or my tongue, if I was feeling charitable.
“Evacuate my lap.”
Usually, I got off on being in complete and meticulous control. But with Dallas, for a reason unfathomable to yours truly, it felt like a burden to stay in character.
She dragged her pussy—clothed only with a flimsy thong—along my crotch.
Of course, I was hard.
All she needed was to exist in the same state as me to make my blood migrate to my dick.
She rolled her hips, her slit dragging across the length of my cock again. “Why should I listen to you when you never listen to me?”
My jaw flexed. “Because I’m very close to obtaining an annulment and sending you back to Chapel Falls to be married off to a farm boy.”
She smacked my chest again. “Take advantage of me, goddammit.”
I wanted to grab the back of her neck, and kiss the shit out of her, and fuck her through our clothes until she orgasmed hard enough to scream.
Until she lost her voice.
To then guide her down between my thighs and come on that elegant upturned nose, youthful freckles, and big Disney-animal eyes.
But I didn’t have it in me to do something she might regret later. Though I couldn’t be accused of ever being in the same zip code as chivalry, dubious consent was where I drew the line.
Especially when it was pitifully obvious that I’d have her on my terms sooner rather than later.
I was about to wrestle her to the sofa when she fell face-first into the crook of my neck. “If you’re planning to suck my blood—”
A soft snore broke through my unfinished threat.
Then I felt her drool. On my neck.
Jesus Christ.
She’d fallen asleep on me. With my hard-on still nestled between her legs.
The smart thing to do would be to put her on the couch and get back to my business.
I was going to do it, too.
Stand up and rid myself of her.
Only, I didn’t.
Perhaps because I couldn’t risk her stirring awake and launching into another episode of verbal diarrhea.
Or maybe because it wasn’t the worst thing in the world to feel her pussy radiating warmth straight into my dick.
Whatever the reason, I let her sleep on me.
Reading the Wall Street Journal and thanking my unlucky stars that, at the very least, Zach and Oliver weren’t here to give me shit about how undomesticated my new wife was.
I’d tame her, all right.
After all—I’d already caged her.
