Contractually Yours: An Arranged Marriage Romance (The Lasker Brothers Book 4)
Contractually Yours: Chapter 13

When I open my eyes the next morning, it’s barely a quarter past five. I sit up and roll my neck. It’s my strict workday routine to be up before six. My head is a bit foggy from the lack of sleep. I can’t blame the unfamiliar bed, since there’s nothing wrong with it, just like there’s nothing wrong with the huge, sprawling mansion. It’s the laundry detergent. It smells unfamiliar. And it reminds me of Luce.

Which still is no reason to not sleep like a baby, especially after I jerked off to see if that’d help, but there you go. Shit happens.

After grabbing a quick shower, I pull some workout clothes from the suitcase the Aylster concierge sent last night and step out into the long, quiet hall. Luce’s suite is on the opposite end, past the winding staircase.

Having separate bedrooms isn’t something I ever thought I’d put up with in a marriage, but this isn’t an ordinary situation. Luce makes me feel things that I’ve never felt before, none of them logical or orderly. Thinking about it now, I shouldn’t have expected her to look at me the way she did Jason, and I certainly shouldn’t have lost my cool or made my point in the limo, even if it did feel perfect.

Even now, as I recall how she melted and sighed, and my dick swells. But I’ll be damned if I sneak into her bed for a repeat.

Not a repeat. You have condoms now.

Ah, yes. The ever-efficient concierge stuck a box into the suitcase. I should be pleased at the considerate gesture, but right now everything exasperates me.

Luce’s home is a massive two-story structure with a basement. She took me around the entire place. Seven bedrooms, ten baths, a five-car garage for everyday use, an enormous twenty-five-car garage that can be converted into a ballroom for entertaining, a living room that overlooks the garden. She said one of the bedrooms is being converted into a home office for me—another considerate gesture I hadn’t anticipated. To be honest, nothing is really what I expected.

There are two kitchens, both of which would make any chef weep with envy, and two fully stocked pantries. A well-equipped home gym and a theater in the basement. And she told me I was welcome to make use of anything as I saw fit, except for the garage-cum-ballroom, because she doesn’t like to have a lot of people over without notice.

There isn’t a hint of orgies or any sort of carnal excess. Every surface is spotless, the air fresh and clean. The paintings on the wall are classy modern pieces that I might’ve hung in my own home.

A miniature bronze by François occupies a nook in the living room near some floating shelves. Luce gazed at it fondly when she showed me around. “Isn’t it just gorgeous? My favorite. I wish I had more of his work.”

She must be a super fan to own a piece at all. François offers almost all his works to Catherine Davis, chief art collector for the billionaire Barron Sterling. Most people never get a chance to own a François, even if they’re swimming in money. Once a piece goes into Barron Sterling’s collection, it doesn’t come out. And he almost never invites people to his private gallery, so you don’t get to see them, either.

I head to Luce’s home gym. It’s probably rarely used, if ever. Most people love the idea of having a gym, but not using it. The former makes you feel virtuous, while the latter actually requires exertion.

When I step inside, music is playing. I spot Luce on the treadmill in front of a mirrored wall. She isn’t doing what many women in my social circle like to do—put on a full makeup, a tight pink tank top and tights, then leisurely move around, occasionally doing a pro forma set but mostly posing and taking selfies to post on Instagram. Luce’s long legs move rapidly on the belt, and sweat mists over her flushed face. A quick look at the treadmill panel says she’s been at it for half an hour.

“Hi,” she pants between rapid breaths.

“Hell,” I mutter. Her labored breathing reminds me of the limo ride. My blood heats.

“If you want to run, I have fifteen more minutes.”

“I don’t.” Her ass looks fantastic.

“Okay.”

She’s a little breathless, which, of course, is normal for someone who’s exercising. I shouldn’t have a reaction, but my blood starts to flow in the wrong direction: south.

“Why are you up so early?” I say, annoyed that she’s in the gym and I’m getting turned on by looking at her.

“It’s not early, it’s Friday. Have to go to work.” She exhales roughly.

“You do?”

“Yeah.” She shoots me an I’m not sure why that’s such a shock to you expression. “Peery Diamonds doesn’t run itself.”

Of course not, but I expected her to sleep until noon. I assumed she wanted her company for the same reason Preston wants mine—money, prestige and ego.

“I’m just doing some cardio, so everything else”—she waves a hand around—“is yours.”

I go to the power rack and warm up for squats. But my mind’s not on the sets to come. The mirror in front of me shows her profile. Her butt is round and taut, each cheek flexing and dropping rhythmically. Her calves curve perfectly as they flex, and her breasts jiggle a little with each stride, despite the red sports bra she’s wearing.

So she wants some cardio, eh? my cock says. I have an idea—

Shut up.

Tearing my gaze from her reflection, I do my sets. I refuse to get sidetracked, no matter how tempting she is. Today is squat day, and nothing’s going to change that.

Once I’m done with the squats, I jump up and grab the pull-up station at the top of the rack for some hanging leg raises. I bring my legs up all the way until they touch the bar, then lower them under control, getting the negative. The treadmill motor dies down from behind me.

Finally, the distracting presence is going to be gone soon.

In my peripheral vision, I see her walk to the ballet barre installed on the wall on the other side of the gym. From this angle, I get a perfect view as she contorts her body like a pretzel. Her flexibility is mesmerizing. One hand on the barre, she effortlessly lifts her unbent leg until it’s touching her ear.

I imagine what it’s going to be like to push her against the wall and drive into her with that leg raised, leaving her helplessly exposed to me. My cock instantly springs to life. If it could talk, it’d say, “Enough fantasizing. Let’s do that now.”

Her next pose makes me stop in the middle of a rep.

She pulls one of her legs behind her, the knee straight. The toes are pointed, and she pulls it closer to her back using just one hand to guide it, until the line her legs make resembles a slightly tilted I. She exhales, eyes closed, then bends her knee a little, sliding her hand along the curve of her calf until the palm rests on the top of her foot. Her spine is arched, pushing her breasts out. Sweat glistens on her flushed skin, but she looks utterly relaxed in the pose.

My body, on the other hand, is anything but relaxed. I let go of the bar and drop down. You can’t do hanging leg raises while sporting a hard-on.

She switches legs. Her lips part, and her wet pink tongue flicks out.

My whole body tightens with the need to loop her ponytail around my fist, bend her over and fuck her from behind. The Toi et Moi ring on her finger winks as she makes small adjustments to her posture. It’s like Morse code: Hey, man, she got your balls along with your name.

She lowers her leg and smiles. “All yours.”

I know she means the gym’s all mine, but my libido does its own interpretation. My long strides erase the distance between us. Her eyes widen as shock flares in their blue depths.

“How many men have seen you pose like this?”

She looks at me like I’m being weird for asking. “I’ve never counted. Why?” As though it’s normal for her to stick her tits out or spread her legs in front of other men.

A sharply edged need takes root—to corrupt her, violate her and mark her as mine. I grab her arm and pull her in until the tip of my dick is pushing against the soft spot just above her belly button. A gasp tears from her throat, and I take her mouth. There’s no finesse, just raw desire. She smells like clean sweat and female flesh, no soap hiding her scent. Her fingers grip my shoulders, and her tongue invades my mouth. She wraps one leg around my hips, pressing her hot core against my overeager cock.

Fuck the consequences. I want to drive into her right now. But somehow I manage to cling to control. No condom, remember?

You can always just pull out. But two of my brothers got their wives pregnant the first time they had sex without protection. There’s no way I’m getting Luce pregnant, adding a baby to this mess.

I yank my mouth from her with a supreme effort. The possibility of an unwanted pregnancy can usually cool my libido faster than a thunderstorm dousing a brushfire. But my blood is still running too hot.

“Breakfast,” I say, needing to say something to break her spell on me. Her glazed gaze says she’d love to be my breakfast. My hormones demand I take up that offer. “And coffee.”

She blinks. The lusty haze dissipates from her eyes. “Matthias should’ve prepped something by now. Do you want to go to the kitchen?”

I manage to jerk my chin up and down once, commanding my body to cool the hell off.

“Lead the way,” I say, then immediately regret it. It’s an ingrained habit to let ladies go first, but with that ass…

Desperate, I try to think of all sorts of unsexy things. Like Dad’s last birthday party with dick cannons and vagina balloons. Or how he got drunk and shoved his tongue down Mom’s throat at that party until he realized it was Mom and not the chick he was hoping to bang.

The former doesn’t do much, but the latter is fully effective.

When we reach the kitchen, a man in his late fifties is fiddling with an espresso machine. His hair is gray, but neatly trimmed in a style that flatters his narrow face, high cheekbones and deep-set brown eyes. His lips are set in a neutral line that hints at polished friendliness. A dark navy vest—buttoned to the top—is over a crisp white dress shirt. The creases on his pinstriped navy slacks are so sharp that even Grandma would approve, although she’d probably comment on his lack of tie.

“Good morning,” he says.

“Morning.” Luce smiles and picks up a toasted bagel. “Sebastian, meet Matthias.”

His eyes briefly catalog my ring, then he looks at me, his face unreadable. He’d make a good poker player. “Hello, sir.”

I nod, sizing him up. People only show their poker face when they don’t like you.

He serves two coffees, one for her and one for me. I take a sip of mine while Luce gets busy dumping sugar into her mug.

“Was your room comfortable?” The question is attentive on the surface, but there’s a slight undertone of disapproval. The man doesn’t like me. Probably he’s upset that Luce brought a stranger home to live with them.

Protective, aren’t you? “Very.”

Luce doesn’t seem to pick anything up from his tone. Maybe she can’t imagine her butler being anything but hospitable.

“I was surprised when Ms. Lucienne asked me to prep an extra bedroom.” All proper and staid. He could be discussing the weather.

Guess she didn’t tell the old man about her underhanded maneuvers. Or the justification we’ve agreed on to explain our separate bedrooms.

“Well, I—” Luce begins.

“Apparently, I snore,” I tell him with a small smile.

Luce shoots me a startled look.

Matthias’s eyebrows lift. “You do?” He draws out the words.

“Uh-huh. I guess I keep her up.” I give him my blandest smile, then glance at her. Her cheeks are flushed, her gaze fixed on me.

The man considers my response, like he can’t decide if I’ve made a lurid joke or not. “Is there anything in particular you’d prefer for breakfast going forward?” he asks finally.

“Cheese omelets. French toast. Pancakes. Bagels or English muffins, toasted. Not all at once. As long as I have something in my belly before leaving the house, I’m actually not too particular.”

I down my coffee, filch a bagel from the plate in front and heap a ton of cream cheese on it. I finish the whole thing in a few bites, while Luce nibbles hers, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin like a proper lady. Grandma would definitely approve.

Is that how Luce convinced my family she isn’t a mere scandal maker? I love my family, but I’m not blind to their flaws. If they had to choose between substance and polish, it’d be the latter all day long. Appearance and pride are everything to them.

After Luce and I finish breakfast, we head to our separate bedrooms to shower and get ready for another busy day before the weekend. I need to attend an extra meeting this afternoon that was rescheduled from yesterday. Afterward, I’m seeing my brothers for dinner, which should be fun. Despite our busy schedules, we try to get together for a meal at least twice a month.

I check my emails and texts, don’t see anything urgent and start heading downstairs. Luce emerges in a deep royal-blue dress with a modest circular neckline. The dress ends an inch above her knees, and she’s in a pair of silver stilettos that elongate her already endless legs.

I’ve never had a leg fetish, but I’m beginning to see the attraction. My mind pictures me throwing her supple legs over my shoulders, those stilettos still on, and…

No, no, no, no, no! I mentally recite the Ten Commandments in Latin. I can’t think about Dad and Mom again, because that would be cruel and unusual punishment.

We walk down the stairs together, me once again behind her. Her hair’s up in a topknot. I pin my gaze on the elegant line of her neck. It’s that or stare at her ass again, although that neck is eminently kissable…

Damn it.

“Is there anything special you want for dinner?” she asks.

“No,” I answer, happy for the distraction. “I’m meeting my brothers for dinner tonight.”

She looks at me over a shoulder expectantly. “That sounds fun. Am I meeting them, too?”

“No.” We reach the foyer.

“Oh.” She smooths her hair and turns away.

I don’t like the stiff set of her shoulders. Although I promised myself I’d even the scales, this is just petty. “You’ll meet them at the wedding reception. Tonight’s dinner is a low-key boys’ night out. My brothers’ wives aren’t invited, either.”

She relaxes a little. “I see.” She smiles at me as a cream Cullinan pulls up. The wall around her seems a little less solid. So a dollop of kindness is all I need to weaken it? That’s entirely too easy—suspiciously so.

She presses a quick kiss to my cheek. “Have a productive day.”

“You too.”

“And take a look at the Sebastian Peery collaboration docs I sent!”

She climbs into the car, then quickly disappears from view. Unless she takes a detour, she’ll be in the office before anybody else. I don’t know about her abilities as an executive, but I’ve got to give her full credit for showing up.

I get behind the wheel of my Phantom.

I told myself I’d strip her of what she wanted from this marriage. I read the document she had me sign after we got married. Our union forces Nesovia to recognize her as an independent adult female capable of making her own decisions. But attacking her from that angle is ridiculous. I don’t want to manage her money or her affairs. In fact, I empathize with her need to free herself from the legal restrictions.

But that doesn’t mean I’m okay with her method.

How about Peery Diamonds…?

She must love that company to have gone to the trouble of marrying me to fully inherit her shares. And she threatened me with losing Sebastian Jewelry.

Well, what goes around comes around.