Page 32 of Claimed By the Villain

I look down at my feet and nod.

“How’d you know?”

“Because if I remember right, you always dreamed of a house with a huge backyard when you got married. Ideally near the beach.”

I stare at him, stunned. Not just because he seems to be trying to make conversation, but because he’s absolutely right. My brother used to laugh when I said, as a kid, that I’d marry a millionaire who’d buy me a private island.

“An island, actually,” I say, remembering the fairy tale dreams I had of meeting Prince Charming. “But I’ve changed.”

His eyes sweep over me from head to toe, and when they meet mine again, there’s a flicker of fire in that midnight blue.

“Are you going to give me a tour?” I ask.

“I’m not a great host. Why don’t you just make yourself comfortable? I’d ask if you want a drink, but last time we saw each other, you passed out at my feet.”

“A gentleman would never throw that in my face.”

He walks toward the kitchen—open-concept, with no walls separating it from the living room—and I watch him open a brushed stainless steel Viking fridge that I know costs around twenty-five grand. He pulls out a bottle of sparkling water and grabs two glasses from the cabinet.

“We lost touch for a long time, Jackie. I know it might be weird for you to see how much my finances have changed, and maybe you’re assuming a few things about me. So, just toclarify: I’m not a gentleman. I remember the last time we saw each other. You came on my thigh so hard your body gave out. Or a blackout might be more accurate?”

Chapter 17

I didn’t mean to be so direct. Part of me still sees her as untouchable.

I’m not exactly subtle. I didn’t get a polished upbringing. I was educated by life, and sex, to me, isn’t taboo. Still, I’d usually think she deserves more care than I’m used to giving.

But the stakes have changed. Now I need to play hard if I’m going to keep my resolve to protect her.

As I pour the sparkling water, she interrupts:

“I need a glass of wine.”

“And I need you sober. We have a lot to talk about.”

She looks gorgeous in a knee-length dress that hugs every curve of her body. When I used to watch her from afar, before I let myself get close, I noticed she liked to wear shorts, skirts, and short dresses. But I never saw her as a woman back then, she was still a little girl in my mind.

Tonight’s outfit feels too modest, and I wonder if she chose it on purpose. Like she’s sending me a message:Not available.

I’ve already gotten a full report of what happened over the past couple of months. I know she briefly dated some loser who didn’t know how to value her.

As much as it pisses me off that he let her down, a broken heart plays in my favor. It’ll be easier to convince her that what I’m offering is the perfect deal.

I know she’s had a few boyfriends over the years, but she never really attached to any of them.

“Look, I’m not an alcoholic, but I really need a glass of wine to calm down,” she says.

I don’t say anything. I walk over to the wine fridge beneath the kitchen island and pull out a bottle from a good vintage.

I uncork the Pinot Noir and fill a glass halfway, sliding it across the counter to her. But just as she reaches for it, I change my mind and pull it back.

“Come here,” I say.

“For what?”

I don’t answer, and I watch her squirm for a moment before she finally gives in.

“What do you want?”