And a little disappointing.
I feel like I just shoved the Liam statue off its special pedestal in my heart, which is stupid. Just because he’s the first guy I fell in love with doesn’t mean he deserves me even if on paper, he’s total husband material—employed, has health insurance, doesn’t live in his mom’s basement, remembers major milestones.
Château Sin is definitely not a basement. Absolutely everything is expensive and oversize, from the ceiling height to the wall of windows that line the western side of the house. You could fit an entire forest of redwoods in there and still have room leftover for a bonus mountain. Sunlight pours in through the glass. It’s California, so the light isn’t unexpected, but I take a second to appreciate it anyway. Sunshine is definitely going into my gratitude journal later today. Parading in front of glass when I’m buck-ass naked is probably more exhibitionist than is socially acceptable, but this is Château Sin—home of legendary kinky sex parties—and my give-a-fuck is broken. I’m tired of being written off as a good girl. I want my shot at being dirty.
I stick to the sunny spots while I consider my good-girl conundrum and an urgent need to seek warmth. Liam’s house is severely air-conditioned. He must be a top 100 individual contributor to global warming.
Although I like my naked statement, the goose bumps are unpleasant. Stumbling across a well-stocked linen closet with a stack of fluffy bath sheets or maybe a guest robe would be optimal, but I’ve clearly used up my karmic deposits for the week as no towels magically appear. Liam’s massive windows are also sans curtains, so I can’t even fashion an impromptu toga, a handy skill acquired at college. Equally lacking is a convenient trail of panties, dress and shoes leading to Liam’s bedroom door. Sucks to be naked me.
When said bedroom door opens behind me, I glue myself to the closest window, under the guise of admiring the sun-browned hills and perfect rows of grapevines. Play it cool. You do not show fear to Liam—he’ll walk all over you, issuing well-intentioned orders.
So I watch him in the reflection and wait for him to make a move.
God, he’s gorgeous.
Bossy, arrogant, far too domineering—and so, so drop-dead gorgeous.
I give up on playing it cool and turn around to appreciate the view. Liam’s a big bear of a man, wearing a pair of misbuttoned faded Levis and nothing else. The jeans hug an impressive bulge and a pair of wickedly muscled thighs. His sun-bronzed chest is all chiseled abs and a faint trail of golden hair leading down to a very, very happy place. I stare shamelessly. He props one broad, muscled shoulder against the door frame, jamming a hand into his pocket. Warm, amused eyes watch me. He’s barefoot, and despite his huge size, he looks downright cuddly. He also looks like he’s once again very much in control. That first part is an illusion. Liam didn’t claw his way to the high throne of Silicon Valley by being nice. Or sweet. Or anything other than whip-smart, ruthless and willing to do whatever it takes.
Part of me finds said ruthless intelligence sexy.
The same part that likes to tease him.
It’s also the part that sends me sinking into a warrior pose, straightening my arms over my head. Yes, let me salute these delicious, warm rays of light with my boobs. I must have been a cat in a former life because I freaking love the heat.
Deliberately, I arch my back, meeting Liam’s gaze. “Morning, sunshine.”
Would it be over the top to roll the tips of my nipples between my fingers like he’d done last night?
“Don’t be a bitch, Hana.”
He sounds slightly desperate, which is new. Bet he’d panic if I dropped into a downward dog.
“No naked yoga. Got it. Are there other house rules at Château Sin I should know about? A menu of dirty sex acts to pick from? Do you offer room service?”
He keeps his eyes on my face. So disappointing. I’ve followed this man around like a puppy for years, so the less mature part of me (along with certain southern regions) badly wants him to notice me. Because I’m not ten anymore, I remind myself not to wish bad things on his inattentive, cranky, unappreciative self. Ill thinking will just boomerang back on me. It’s basic cause and effect.
He pads toward me and holy wow, I have another item for today’s gratitude list. The man is poetry in motion—dirty, hot, 100 percent confident, epic poetry. If I’m a happy, sunbathing housecat, Liam is a predator feline and I hope I’m lunch.
He holds out a shirt. Of course. “Get dressed.”
“You’re surprisingly prudish for a man who hosts sex parties.”
When I take the shirt from him, our fingers brush. He might have earned a billion dollars with his big, beautiful brain but he doesn’t sit on his ass 24/7. The man has a serious rock-climbing addiction, witnessed by the calluses and collection of small scars decorating his fingers. I’ve fantasized about his strong hands, sure, but my new firsthand knowledge sends little shivers through my lower belly.
“Maybe I don’t share.” There’s not so much as a hint of a smile on his face now. I can’t tell if he’s pulling my leg or making a delicious caveman statement.
“So group sex is off the menu?” I tip my head to the side, trying to read the truth on his face. It’s not that I think he would lie to me—Liam is scrupulously honest and will avoid answering questions rather than outright prevaricating—but he hates sharing details about himself.
“This isn’t the time.” The look he gives me says I should know what the etiquette is for this situation.
I’m neither Miss Manners nor Emily Post, so I indulge myself in some shameless staring to give him time to remember who I am. His eyes are hazel (a Liam fact I knew already), but the sunlight reveals they’re flecked with gold because Mother Nature marked him as a rich boy from the day of his birth and he could have been an underwear model if he hadn’t decided to be an evil business genius instead.
His gorgeous eyes move over my face, analyzing, as I slip into his shirt. I consider leaving it unbuttoned, but he’s right.
Bitchiness will only come back to bite me.
Plus, I’m cold.
I compromise and do up everything but the top three buttons. Since Liam’s built like a lumberjack, this leaves enough cleavage on display to remind him I’m no child.
“What you said back there—” He tips his head toward his bedroom. Stops. Frowns, clearly marshaling his thoughts. I wonder just how bad his hangover is because this is the first time I can recall Liam being at a loss for words. “That we got married last night—”
God, he’s cute.
“You did buy me a ring.” I give him a smile, half teasing, half pissed he’s forgotten.
He pulls his hand out of his pocket and unfolds his clenched fingers to reveal a stunning bridal ring set. He’s holding half a diamond mine in his palm. The stones dazzle in the morning sunlight and I wonder just how much money Liam spent. Probably more than my poor mortgaged bee farm is worth to the bank. I definitely had far less to drink than he did, but my memories are still less clear than I’d like. I do remember that after we got married beneath the big top, he made a phone call and someone in a dark suit showed up with a case of rings. I’d argued for something less costly than the GDP of a small nation, but I’d lost that battle.