She’s obviously inexperienced…or maybe her ex-boyfriends were simply worthless.
Ideally both. I want to wreck her, utterly ruin her in the year we have together. Then maybe finally I can flush all the old and ugly shit I’m carrying out of my system.
Chapter Fifteen
Annabelle
Elliot is waiting for me, standing by the passenger door. His gaze is hidden behind a pair of sunglasses, but I can feel his head-to-toe perusal. The breeze rustles my dress, the fabric rubbing against my nipples. They pucker, and a sharp sensation dashes through my body. I clench my legs. It’s the wind, really…nothing to do with the weight of his eyes roaming over my body.
Still, heat follows, and I flush. I should’ve asked Josephine for some sunglasses of my own when I had the chance. It seems unfair he can look in secret, while I can’t.
His mouth parts, and the tip of his tongue wets his lips. Shades or no, there’s a hunger in the man. And my body inexplicably responds to that need with my own. It pulses through my veins until I have to open my mouth to breathe.
Wordlessly, he opens the door to the Mercedes, and I climb inside. The edge of his hand brushes my bare shoulder; goosebumps rise, and I almost falter.
When he’s inside, I cross my arms over my chest. “How many cars do you own?”
“Enough to get me where I need to go,” he says.
I snort at the non-answer. “Do you have a yacht and private jet, too?”
“No yacht, but the jet is affirmative.” In some men the statement might have come off as bragging, but his tone is so bland he could be talking about what to pack for a business trip.
“Where are we going?”
“A restaurant.”
I scowl. “Are you always this helpful when you answer?”
“Yes.”
Argh. Why am I bothering with conversation? Hasn’t he made it clear over and over again that he’s doing this specifically for sex? I just happen to have a body that he wants for a year. Why would he treat me like a real person?
I pull out my phone to text Nonny. She isn’t a baby, like he said, but she is my little sister and my responsibility. I need to make sure she’s okay.
Before I can start typing my message, I frown at a text from my bank. An additional thousand dollars has landed in my account.
My hand tightens. That’s Mr. Grayson’s automatic monthly deposit.
Does he know that I’m about to marry? He hasn’t contacted me since he told me to snag Elliot. I have no idea if he’s still serious about it, or if he knows I’m about to marry Elliot for money.
Lots of money.
God. My head is a mess. Not a pretty place. I need some time and space to regroup and think, but it’s hard when I’m constantly worried about money and strung tight with need pulsing between my legs.
Elliot maneuvers the car into the traffic and hands me a manila envelope. “From the lawyer.”
“I thought it was going to my place.”
“It’s my copy plus another one for you.”
Curious, I pull out the papers. Four sheets, two per set. Craig wasn’t kidding about it being short and sweet. Everything’s clearly written out, black and white, and ridiculously stark. Laid out like this, what Elliot and I are doing is so obvious—a year of sex in exchange for him providing for me and my sister financially, plus the façade of marriage in exchange for a million-dollar settlement. It’s a simple transaction, and the lawyer’s clever wording makes it sound totally legit. It reminds me of the way Dad used to dupe people with fancy but plausible sounding talk.
Stop thinking about Dad. I have to focus on the present, and what this deal from Elliot means. Women stay with men for far less than what he’s giving.
Yet somehow the arrangement leaves a deep void in my heart. I can’t even say it’s because he’s treating me like a whore, because he isn’t. If that were the case, he would’ve never proposed marriage.
“This is fine,” I say. “I’ll sign it.”
“You should get a lawyer to review it,” he says. “Just to make sure you’re one hundred percent comfortable with everything.”
“It’s very clear.”
“You won’t have second thoughts?”
“In a year? Hardly enough time for second thoughts.”
The muscles in his jaw flex, but he doesn’t say anything. Nor does he look at me. His gaze is focused on the congested road ahead of us.
I pull out a pen from my purse and scrawl my name on the paper, then put the agreement back into the envelope. “There.”
His shoulders sag almost imperceptibly. “We’ll marry tomorrow. You’re free I presume.”
“I haven’t turned in my notice,” I say.