Page 3 of Dirty Husband

He's every part the distinguished professional. Navy suit, turquoise tie, brown dress shoes.

But there's a tiny hint of the boy I loved in his clear blue eyes.

"I have a proposition for you." His voice stays even.

I pretend as if I'm more interested in my drink. "Yes?"

His voice just barely softens. "I need a wife."

"A wife?" My heart thuds against my chest, drowning every thought in my brain. "You need a wife?" I repeat the words. They make even less sense this time.

He's twenty-five. He owns the hottest tech company on the market. He screams of power, money, control.

Filthy rich and incredibly handsome.

The body of an Olympic swimmer. The face of Prince Charming. There are ugly parts to Shepard, yes, but those scars are hidden beneath the surface.

They're—

"I need you, Jasmine," he says. "I need you to be my wife."

Chapter Two

Shepard

Jasmine sinks into her chair. She presses her lips together. Brings the espresso cup to her mouth.

Takes a tiny sip.

Her lipstick—something red and rich that drives me out of my fucking mind—doesn't stain the glass. The kind of lipstick that stays on. That won't mark my skin.

Why is she drinking a macchiato? She hates coffee. Always talks about the superiority of tea.

She's a smart woman. Maybe she's doing it to drive me mad. So I spend the entire meeting wondering if her lipstick will stain my cock.

Or maybe I don't know the woman she's become.

The thought makes my stomach twist. But I don't have time for these kinds of considerations.

I certainly don't have time to focus on how badly she wants me.

It's written all over her face. The flush of her cheeks. The heave of her chest. The shudder of her thighs.

Fuck, those thighs—

It's been too long since they've been pressed against my cheeks. Since she's been under me, clawing at my skin, begging for my mercy.

You should know better, princess. I don't have a single scrap of mercy.

I try to focus on my espresso, but it's not nearly as interesting as her almond eyes.

She turns a few inches toward me. Finishes her drink. Sets the ceramic on the massive desk.

An expensive oak. The perfect height to turn her over and fuck her senseless.

God dammit. I'm better than these impulses. I don't care how long it's been. I don't care how desperately I need to erase my thoughts.

I'm not letting my cock steer this conversation.