Anger rushes through me all over again. Did she ignore my demand to stay in the room?
I go quietly to the door and crack it. The living area is shadowed. It takes me a second to realize that Brooklyn has moved all of her things to one end of the couch, her body huddled under a blanket at the other end. The TV is on some French news channel, and she’s fast asleep.
I step over to her, hands in my pockets, heart in my throat. Even asleep, a half-frown tugging at the corner of her mouth, she’s the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen.
Something tugs in my chest, but I smash it down. Fuck that. She doesn’t deserve any kindness from me after what she tried to pull. I fight back the urge to move the hair out of her face. To scoop her into my arms and tuck her into the bed where she’ll be more comfortable.
She won’t get any of that from me. This isn’t what I want, but it’s what we’re both going to get.
How the hell did I get her so wrong?
Luka
Chapter 2
It’s been two full days and I can’t take another second of being cooped up in this prison.
Brooklyn has tried to grab any opportunity to try to talk, to make me listen to her excuses and lies, but I’ve become deft at shutting her out. We’ve been ordering room service for every meal, eating in separate rooms, and haven’t left the suite once. Everyone thinks they know what we’re doing, locking ourselves away in here. We’re on our honeymoon, after all. We should be having nonstop sex. But what I’m really experiencing is pure hell. I can feel the constant tension despite the closed door between us, and I’m sick of listening to the same playlist of loud, angry songs on shuffle.
I step out on the balcony outside my bedroom and stretch as I take in the Eiffel Tower in the distance. Bright morning light spills over the treetops and cathedral spires, and the air is just starting to turn warm, carrying the scent of spring flowers. But even Paris gets boring when your view never changes. I want out of here.
Stretching my legs as I walk around the city and letting my mind wander sounds like heaven. I’d love to be able to focus on something other than what Brooklyn did to me. But unfortunately, I can’t be seen out in public without my bride. It wouldn’t be good for PR. So I guess that leaves me with only one choice if I have any hope of setting foot outside this cell.
Throwing open the bedroom door, I start to speak to Brooklyn but then stop in my tracks and do a double take as I realize the sitting room looks different.
“Everything okay?” she asks, but I don’t respond as I look around at what she’s done.
All of her personal effects are organized and tucked away. The windows are open, the curtains tied back. She’s arranged an oversized chair with a pillow and blanket in the corner, near the largest window. A black satin teddy hangs over the back of the chair, taunting me. Did she wear that when she went to bed last night? Did the hem ride up her tight thighs while she slept?
Fuck. I can’t afford to let my mind go there.
She’s looking at me curiously, obviously still waiting for me to say something. As I take her in fully, I realize she’s lounging in a boxy tee shirt that barely covers her ass. I look away.
“We’re going out,” I bark.
“Where?” Brooklyn’s face lights up. “To do what?”
“Nothing fancy,” I tell her, purposely shooting her down. “Get dressed.”
I go back in my room and move to shut the door, then decide to keep it open. I might despise her, but she’s still mine. She’s under my command, and she needs to be aware of that.
Pushing the door wider, I cross my arms and make it very clear that I’m going to keep an eye on her every move. After a quick glance at me, Brooklyn walks out of view into the foyer. I hear the bathroom door click shut a second later.
Grinding my jaw, I go deeper into my room and pick out my own clothes, dressing in a hurry as I ponder what we’re going to do today. Anything. Nothing.
What she deserves is to be punished—I don’t want her to enjoy herself. Don’t want to provide her with a leisurely parade around the City of Lights. Not after what she’s done. So I’ll keep our activities to the basics. No upscale brasseries or basement jazz clubs or locals-only cafés. In fact, I’m not going to bring her to a single one of the secret spots I had originally planned on impressing her with.
I look in the mirror and adjust the cuffs of my shirt. I don’t know why this has been such a shock. Brooklyn hasn’t done anything to me that scores of other women haven’t done before. Women have used me for as long as I can remember. And I’ve used them right back. Why not? I’ve got the looks and the money to give most of them what they’re after.
Pretty pictures for their social media accounts. Entertainment. Access to the kinds of VIP restaurants, clubs, and parties they wouldn’t otherwise get into. Unbelievable sex. I get laid; they get pampered.
Done deal.
I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised that Brooklyn was self-serving in how she used me. It’s nothing more than I might have done, had the tables been turned. But I have no plans for the future yet. Every time I try to think about my next steps, the betrayal hits me hard all over again. It’s an unfamiliar predicament to be in. No other woman has made me feel like this before.
I just need to get through Paris. Once I’m back in Chicago, it’ll be easier to figure out what to do. The only reason I’m having a hard time right now is because we’re on our fucking honeymoon. I can’t wrap my head around the disconnect between what’s supposed to be happening and what actually happened.
She quietly reenters the sitting room and I lean back against the bed to take in her sexy form. Then she turns her back to me and slowly pulls her tee shirt over her head. I hiss out a breath at the sight of her back, the golden skin bare and slender, the dimples over her ass, her lacy thong disappearing between the naked globes. She gives me the barest glance over her shoulder, lips quirked to one side as we make eye contact. She knows I’m watching. My mouth is watering, and I can feel my balls tighten.
Sauntering to her suitcase, she bends to grab some clothes, giving me a full view of that perfect ass. My pulse kicks up another notch and I have to adjust my pants as she steps into a pair of skinny jeans that conform to her long, toned legs. Sans bra, she slides into a filmy, pale pink blouse. The back is cut out, showing off the strong lines of her back.
She’s taunting me. Luring me. Trying to force me to forgive her. It’s not going to work.
Brooklyn turns and pulls her hair back. The blouse drapes over her breasts with a delicate touch, the stiff peaks of her nipples clearly visible.
Anger flares to life inside me. Or maybe it’s sexual frustration. No, it’s both—and I don’t even care. I want her and I hate myself for it.
She turns her back to me again, her hands behind her head as she loops her hair into a twist at the nape of her neck. The giant diamond ring on her left hand flashes in the sunlit room, flaming the war of emotions inside me.
“I’m ready,” she says quietly and grabs her clutch, holding it between her hands while she quietly waits for me.
“Then let’s go.” I brush by her and she spins to catch up. I don’t wait. I open the door to the hall and go out first, not holding it for her. Not caring if it swings back in her face. It doesn’t, of course, and only when we reach the lobby do I slow down and allow her to walk beside me.