Page 7 of Gilded

MALIA

I must have heard him wrong. “Excuse me?”

“Strip.” He extends the word, matching the drawl with a sweep of his wineglass before turning toward the kitchen. “Let me see what I have to work with.”

Heat floods my cheeks. My stomach is so tight, it cramps. “You’re not serious.”

He brings the wine bottle to the table, then bends to come eye to eye with me, his gaze holding on my mouth.

“Let’s get something straight.” His gaze lifts to mine. “I am always serious. I never say something I don’t mean. So, you can stop asking.” I straighten and hand her the glass. “Finish this. Looks like you need a little liquid courage.”

I need more than liquid courage, but since this is all I have, I drain the glass. I’m already tipsy from my predinner drink. Then I added another glass while barely eating. This is my third, and I’m a lightweight. If I drink enough, maybe I can forget all this happened.

“It won’t take much,” he says, wandering the room and gesturing toward me with his glass. “You can’t be wearing anything underneath that. Just drop it.”

He’s so fucking condescending, and this is so much harder than I thought it would be. I always assumed my marriage would be arranged, but I never imagined this twisted scenario.

“What if I said no?”

His head tilts. “Do you really need an answer to that?”

I guess not. As much as I’d like to deny it, I need to accept there’s no way out. Not yet. And over the last two weeks, I’ve learned that by the time my arguing is exhausted, I could have just done it and had whatever it is behind me. The faster I do this, the faster it’s over.

I’ve never been particularly modest, but I’ve never undressed in front of a man before either.

The raw feeling of utter vulnerability pushes my heart into my throat.

I set down my glass, step out of my heels, slide the thin straps off my shoulders, close my eyes, take a breath, and let the dress drop.

I’m now wearing nothing but a black thong, and I swear I have to be hot pink, because I feel like I have a raging fever. My hands curl into fists, and I bite the inside of my lower lip. I try to tell myself it’s hardly different from the bikini I was wearing earlier, but it doesn’t help.

When he doesn’t speak, I let out my air and open my eyes, only to find his gaze scouring every inch of my body, slowly.

I’ve had men leer at me before, but that’s not what he’s doing.

This expression is richer, hotter, and it gives me a whole different feeling.

One I don’t understand and can’t explain.

A hum vibrates in his throat, and gooseflesh rushes over my skin. My nipples were already hard, but now they’re so tight, they hurt, and a confusing heaviness collects low in my body.

“Well,” he says, his speech slower, his voice deeper. “He really did find himself the perfect trophy wife, didn’t he?”

I’ve heard the term bandied about at galas, so I know he’s right. That’s all I am now. A thing. A prize. What’s even harder to swallow is that it’s all I’ve ever been.

He strolls around me, surveying me like I’m an object he’s thinking of buying, his body loose, his amperage on high. It vibrates inside me, tightening every cell in my body.

I clench my teeth and pray this is over soon. I’m going to stuff myself into sweats, wrap all my covers around me, disappear into my bed, and cry myself to sleep.

He puts one finger under my chin and tilts my head back. “Look at me.”

My gaze meets his, and I’m distracted from my situation for a blissful moment, lost in the fiery heat in his eyes. They look silvery now, not flat like they were at dinner. His lids are heavy, his lashes long and pure black.

“What scent are you wearing?” he asks.

I’m next to naked, and he asks about my perfume? I didn’t think I could feel less attractive. “I don’t know the name. Something Soren gave me to wear. It’s in a black bottle.”

He nods. “Midnight Nymph?”

“I think so. Why?”

“It doesn’t suit you.”

I sigh. “I don’t like it either, but I have enough criticism in my life, if you don’t mind.”

“It’s a young fragrance. Nymphs are minor goddesses, youthful, carefree, immature.

It’s far too”—he searches for the right word—“sweet for your body chemistry. You may be young in years, but you’re mature beyond your age.

A bit of an old soul, maybe. And you couldn’t be carefree in this life even if you wanted to be. You need something more sophisticated.”

I don’t know what to say to that. I’m not one hundred percent sure if he’s complimenting me or something else, but whatever is happening here is different from anything I’ve experienced before.

Luka’s not turned inward like the other men in this house.

I sense a connection with him. Unwanted, but present.

It’s hard to pin down. Different from the staff.

Different from what I had with Yari. Different from people I talk to at the galas.

I don’t understand it. Don’t know if it’s good, bad, or neutral, but it’s clearly desire, flowing from him in a heavy stream.

It's similar to things I feel when I catch two people doing intimate things in a hallway or the bathroom or the parking lot at the galas. But this is far more intense. Maybe because it’s directed at me this time. Directed at me while I’m standing here naked, talking about sex.

But it’s deeper too. It’s like he really sees me. And only right now, in this moment, do I realize I’ve felt either invisible, annoying, or dismissible my entire life. Yet, despite telling me to strip, his gaze holds on my face like he’s looking for something.

“Do you know what your husband-to-be likes in bed?”

The question jolts me back to my ugly reality. “No.”

“He likes things rough.” He trails one finger down my throat, and his gaze breaks from mine to follow the movement. His touch slides over my collarbone and down my arm. “BDSM. Do you know what that means?”

I dig my nails into my palms. “No, but I instinctively hate it.”

One side of his mouth lifts in a wry expression. “You’re smarter than he thinks. It’s an acronym for bondage, dominance, sadism, and masochism.”

Putting those words into a sexual context just confuses and scares me more.

As Luka circles me, his touch shifts. Still just one finger, but it follows the curve of my hip, then the length of my spine. “Threesomes, orgies, kink.”

I don’t know what those are either. And yes, I still hate them.

But I’m distracted by the way my body reacts to his touch.

My heart throbs hard against my ribs, every inch of my skin tingles, and my mind goes hazy as I try to remember what little I learned about sex through health textbooks and a birds-and-the- bees discussion from one of my nannies.

It always seemed like an insert-tab-A-into-slot-B kind of thing, but that’s not what’s happening here.

What’s happening here is some kind of power play.

One that’s entirely different from others I’ve experienced.

As he rounds in front of me again, his finger slides toward my belly, up my ribs, and over one breast. I loathe the way my body quivers under his touch.

Then his finger slides up my neck and pauses under my chin again, his gaze holding mine. The longer I look at him, the softer my resistance becomes.

“Do you understand?” he asks, his voice low but no less intense.

I forgot what we were talking about. His heat sinks into my skin. His scent fills my head. Subtle but strong. It sits close to his skin and becomes deeper when he’s near. And it’s delicious. It stirs embers inside me, even though I want to hate it. Hate him.

“No. I don’t understand any of this.”

He goes quiet. Quiet, serious, and still, staring into my eyes like he’s searching for something. Like I’m not standing here nearly naked with him.

The silence is unnerving, as are his complex tangle of emotions that spiral around me. His gaze moves across my face, pausing on the cut and studying the bruises. When his eyes meet mine again, a weird feeling tightens my chest.

“Soren is an idiot. He should treat you better.”

That one statement digs into my soul, making me feel worthy of kindness.

Validating the appalling way Soren acts toward me.

Tears tingle over the bridge of my nose.

Suddenly, I feel understood. I feel like he’s on my side.

Like we’re united in hating Soren, and I find myself wanting to lean into him.

It’s irrational. He’s not a good man. A stranger only hours ago. Certainly not someone I can trust. But I’m exhausted from the chronic stress, my barriers are brittle, and he’s tapping on them with a hammer.

I need to remember he’s lying about keeping things I say between us. I’m all too aware that everything I do or say will go straight back to Soren, and my life could depend on how it’s delivered and received.

In fact, Luka could be carrying out one big test to see if I’ll try to befriend him the way I did Yari. To search for evidence of how I’ll act when pushed to my limit. Will I try to expose my father? Will I try to escape again? Will I resist and cause problem upon problem?

So I work up some lies. “He’s under a lot of stress. He’s not always like this.”

Luka gifts me with an unexpected smile. A real smile. And Lord, the man is breathtaking. His teeth are beautiful, his eyes warm, crinkling at the corners. “Didn’t I just say you’re a shitty liar?”

That shatters whatever tentative connection I imagined, and I drop my gaze to his chest as anger simmers in my veins.

“What are you thinking?” he asks. “And don’t say nothing.”

When I look at him again, my desperation pushes words from my throat. “That you’re a bully, just like them.”

The spark in his gaze vanishes and the humor in his expression tightens. But it’s the cooling of the heat he’s been exuding that makes me brace for a backhand to my face. My poor face.

But when Luka lifts his hand, he gently slides his knuckles along my jaw. “Have you ever been kissed, Princess Malia?”

That is the last thing I expected to come out of his mouth. “I, um… No.”

With his full lips tilted in a sexy little smile, he lowers his head—so, so, so slowly, I’m convinced our mouths will never meet. Then he presses his lips to mine and lets them linger there before pulling back, checking my expression, and kissing me again.

His lips are so much softer than I imagined a man’s would be, and he’s so much gentler than I expected.

I feel my sharp edges softening even as I tell myself to keep all my guards up.

But my body is ambushed by a sweeping sensation of delight, and rationalizations for the pleasure ping around my brain, everything from lack of affection to a biological reaction.

Then he cups my face in both hands and slides his tongue across my lips. I pull in a sharp breath, and when my lips part, he kisses me harder and pushes his tongue into my mouth, sliding it along mine.

It’s the strangest, most sensual thing I’ve ever felt, and my thought process shuts down as I’m barraged with new sensations.

I fist his shirt to keep myself from falling against him.

But he adds more pressure, moves his tongue in ways that make fire lick through my veins, and I forget about everything but the feel and taste of his mouth on mine.

Then he turns his head and kisses me the other direction, doing the same things until I’m throbbing from the roots of my hair to the soles of my feet.

Which is when he abruptly pulls away.

Aside from dilated pupils leaving nothing but a silver ring, he seems completely unaffected. He steps back, but I’m still leaning into him. He grips my biceps and pushes me away until my hands release his shirt.

“Tonight,” he says, his voice soft, “while you’re lying in bed, think about that kiss. Focus on the areas of your body that start to ache and touch them in any way that feels good. You can report back to me on the results tomorrow.”

I flush head to toe in a heatwave.

He releases one arm and watches his thumb slide over my lower lip again. “Then get some sleep, princess. You’ve got a lot of sexual predilections to master.”