Page 16 of Cunning Lies

“You’re not sharing a room with two grown-ass men for another night.”

“I’ve been sleeping in the same room as them mywholelife. The whole week you’ve known me!”

I tsk her under my breath. It’s still a dump.

“Don’t care. This is the first time I’ve seen inside your room. You’re not staying here.”

“But Uncle Jay and Patrick—”

I press a finger to my lips and she falls silent. “My wife isn’t going to sleep in those conditions anymore.”

“Fiancée,” she corrects.

“Contract has been signed,wife,” I counter. “Let me take care of you.”

Her eyes narrow, and that snarky side comes up for air. Maybe she’s too tired to pretend to be a prude, or maybe this is me pulling the real Vi out.

Eventually, she nods and goes back inside. The lights turn on in the motel room, and shadows move across the curtained windows. She returns with a suitcase and a duffel bag; I carry them to my Challenger and store them in the trunk.

We drive to Samurai Castle, and I escort her to the suites closest to the ballroom so that she won’t have long to walk tomorrow. A surge of excitement pumps through me.We’re getting married tomorrow.I never thought I’d be excited about my own wedding, but here I am.

I hold open the door, letting her inside. Her mouth hangs open; I can’t tell if it’s shock or fatigue. There’s a view of the Strip, and every fixture gleams with elegance. There’s even a fully stocked bar near the kitchen. I put her bags by the bathroom and she meets my gaze.

“Thank you,” she says, then she lowers her eyes. Back to that submissive, proper virginal niece act.

I’ve seen the real her, and I want her back.Now.

“But you’re not sleeping here, are you?” she asks.

I laugh. Is it a part of her act, or is she actually nervous around me? I don’t answer; I head to the stocked bar and find a brand new bottle of Hakushu Whisky.

“It’s bad luck for us to sleep together on the eve of the wedding,” she says.

I raise my glass. “I’m not interested insleeping,Vivian.”

“Vi,” she corrects. I offer her some whisky. Vi shakes her head. “You know what I mean.”

She paces the room, probably waiting for me to leave, but I savor every drop of the woodsy liquor on my tongue. Is she nervous, being around someone from the mafia, or is this a part of her act? The woman shewantsme to fall for?

I’ll figure out what’s real, whether or not she likes it.

“You’re a virgin?” I ask. She slows to a stop and stares down at her feet, all shyness and performance. Still, I don’t buy it. “Let’s see.”

Her big, stormy blue eyes brew thunder as she looks up at me. “You want to examine me?”

I admit the idea of ‘examining’ her is appealing, but it’s not a search for a hymen; it’s a judge of character, a way to see if this is an act, if she’s more comfortable with her sexuality than she lets on.

“Lie down on the bed,” I instruct. “No underwear. No pants.”

“But Kenzo,” she says, hesitation in her voice. She doesn’t finish her sentence.

“The door is right there,” I say, pointing to the exit. “No one’s making you stay here.”

She grits her teeth, but then she stomps over to the bedroom and does as I instructed. On her back. Eyes on the ceiling. Then she slides the pajama pants and underwear off of her hips.

Her pussy is soft and hairy, exactly like I remember from the gala. I salivate at the sight; she’s perfect. Her legs are shoulder-length apart, but I kneel at the end of the bed, peering between her thighs. That decadent slit. Dark red hair. Freckles on her thighs. Her knees lock out, her eyes stay fixed on the ceiling. I stand up again, looking down at her.

“Touch yourself,” I murmur.