Page 33 of Redamancy (Fated Fixation #2)

Chapter twenty-six

E ighteen hours later, we have an expedited courthouse ceremony. Adrian wears a dark Armani suit that brings out his eyes, and I wear a long-sleeved satin gown with the bones of a corset and a bottom that drapes like water.

It’s the work of some Italian designer who immediately agreed to overnight it to me when he heard the name of my groom-to-be.

We may be a touch overdressed, considering it’s just the two of us, a windowless room with a monotone officiant, and a private photographer—but the ceremony is perfect.

No fanfare. No flashy spectacles. No family members trying to leech the joy out of the day. Just him, me, and the five-million dollar oval-cut, blush pink diamond engagement ring that’s now taking up most of the real estate on my left ring finger.

I haven’t gotten used to its weight on my finger yet—or the way it casts prisms on every surface, including the all sleek, shiny ones in the kitchen of Adrian’s penthouse.

I feel like I’m wearing the result of a museum heist on my finger.

I’m examining it so closely I don’t notice Adrian’s quiet, long strides returning to the kitchen till his front is pressed to my back, effectively trapping me against the counter.

“My wife,” he greets me, brushing a featherlight kiss to the shell of my ear. He’s buzzing with the same lightness he’s had since we left City Hall, our union sealed in ink.

“You keep calling me that,” I say, fingers curling around the edge of the counter when he bites down on my earlobe.

“Because it’s true,” he murmurs. “You’re my wife now.

” He kisses under my jaw. “You share my home.” Then the pulse point of my carotid artery.

“My name.” And the base of my neck. “There is not a way in which you don’t belong to me.

” He removes a hand from the counter and trails it down the side of my gown, straight to the button clasps cinching it closed. “Well, except for one.”

My lower belly dips with anticipation ten years in the making—but he only hovers there, toying with the clasps, and leaving soft, open-mouthed kisses down my neck.

Too many clothes.

I stir with impatience. “Are you going to—”

I yelp as he bites down—even harder this time—on the pulse point of my neck. “No,” he answers. “Not here.”

And then, in one swift, effortless movement, he hoists me into his arms. “I want you in my bed.” His eyes flit back to the counter. “The first time.”

I can’t remember the last time I felt this nervous about sex as Adrian carries me over the threshold of the master suite—and my eyes land on the sprawling king bed.

I’m about to have sex with my husband.

A greedy sense of desire rolls through me.

Clearly, Adrian isn’t the only one who gets some sort of possessive satisfaction in knowing someone is legally his.

I have, I think. One of the most powerful men in the world carrying me to bed.

And he’s mine.

And when he places me down on my feet and reaches for the clasps again—I shake my head.

He lifts a brow in question.

“No,” I say, heart pounding. “I want—”

Am I really doing this?

“I want an apology,” I finish.

He doesn’t look immediately affronted by the idea of my demanding the apology—just confused. “An apology?”

I hesitate.

You’ve either got to commit to the lane, Poppy, or get out of the lane.

I straighten my shoulders and level him with a stern, unforgiving gaze. “You tried to sabotage my life,” I say. “And you tried to frame me for murder.”

And here are two things I never thought I’d say to the man I’d marry one day.

“And it got you here,” he retorts. “In my home, in my arms, and with my name. I can’t apologize for something I don’t feel sorry about, sweetheart.”

“And what about my emotional suffering?” I ask. “All that time I spent grappling with my instincts as you gaslit me for weeks ? Or all those hours I spent, cold and shivering, in a holding cell? You don’t feel sorry for those things either?”

His expression becomes uncertain. “Well, of course. That was not the—”

“So,” I cut in. “I want an apology.”

There’s a pause as he digests my meaning, before his eyes gleam with interest. “Tell me what kind of apology you’d like.”

My breath hitches. “One with you on your knees.”

His eyes widen with momentary surprise, and I worry when he retreats backwards a step that he’s retreating from me —but then he does as I ask.

No hesitation.

He drops to one knee.

And then the other.

Holy shit.

Even now, it’s apparent Adrian Ellis does not have a submissive bone in his body. He’s got the tilted chin and straightened shoulders of someone who’s never had to ask, only demand. His eyes track me, a predator waiting for an opportunity to pounce. “Like this?” he purrs.

I nod. “Yeah…that’s—what are you doing?”

“Well, I should be humble when I apologize, right?” He asks, mouth curling with a feral smile, as he unbuttons his dress shirt. He unveils the coiled muscle underneath, little by little, till he’s shed the shirt completely.

I drink him in, my eyes lingering on the poppy flower inked right above his heart.

I tilt my head.

“You know, there’s just something so...” I step closer, into his space, and trail a finger down the healed skin.

“Familiar?” He finishes, and he traps my hand right against his heart. I feel his pulse thrumming below the wall of muscle and bone and blood. “Almost like it’s…yours?”

“What?” I stare down at the tattoo, and then realization strikes. My breath catches.

Wait.

“This is mine. This is my design. I made—” My eyes dart towards his, and I breathe: “How?”

A secretive smile plays on his lips. “Eight years ago, a client commissioned you to do a bunch of minimalist flower designs—”

“To hang around the office of their non-profit,” I finish, eyes widening. “That was you? Who emailed me?” It’s been so long I can’t even recall the details—only that it paid nearly a year of my rent.

“Technically, no,” he says. “I had Maggie, one of the employees at the Ellis Foundation, send it. All the other designs did get hung in our Baltimore office—still are, to my knowledge—but this one I obviously kept for myself.”

I blink down in disbelief. “I’m…”

“I figured,” he says. “If I’m going to have you permanently inked into my skin, it might as well be with your design.”

Heat flashes through me.

It’d been erotic knowing he’d gotten my name etched into his skin, but now, to know it’s also my design…

"Anything else?" I manage past the swell of my emotion in my throat. "The tattoo, the dossier…that's it, right? No other ways have you been pulling strings this past decade?"

He offers me a coy look. "Well, I suppose there is one last thing you don't know about."

My stomach dips.

Oh, God.

"…okay," I breathe, readying myself for anything.

"It's unreasonably possessive to admit," he confesses. "But I've never been able to stand anyone else having your art. Hanging it in their home." A pause. "So I bought your art."

My mind whirs. "From the Ars Astrum?"

He nods.

A feminine, British buyer, Ocean said?

"Let me guess," I sigh. "Another one of your employees?"

He smirks, and then: "Does that upset you?"

Does it upset me?

Maybe, a couple of days ago, it would've…

But things are a hell of a lot different than they were a couple of days ago.

I kiss him fiercely.

Adrian responds in earnest, cupping the back of my head and tangling his tongue with mine. It’s a bit of an awkward angle though, with him on his knees, so I go to bend down—only for his hands on my shoulders to stop me.

He shakes his head. “I’m supposed to be the one on my knees, remember? Apologizing, right?”

A little cloudy with desire, I nod.

“Bunch up your dress,” he suddenly orders. “Around your waist.” I do as he asks, and his eyes drop down to my white lace panties, now completely exposed. He smiles up at me through dark lashes. “Did you wear these just for me?”

I huff. “You literally picked these out for me. This morning.”

“I know.” His eyes are playful, which is why I’m not expecting him to suddenly drive my hips into his face.

“You’re like my little doll.” He kisses my inner thigh.

“I get to play dress-up with you whenever I want.” Another kiss—higher up my thigh this time, and I exhale shakily.

“And I get to ravish you whenever I want.” He tugs my panties down—by his teeth—and presses his tongue flat against my clit.

Oh, fuck.

It’s disconcerting, how quickly Adrian outperforms every other sexual partner I’ve had, with a couple flicks of his tongue. Pleasure sparks through me, my head tilts back, and I steady myself by tangling my hands in his hair.

Did it feel this good last time?

Because there’s no way I hopped on a plane and left when he was—

His tongue skirts teasingly over my folds, and I tug on his soft curls. It’s start gentle enough, like he’s just sampling the menu of options.

But then his tongue sweeps inside of me.

My legs buckle, unable to keep standing under the onslaught of pleasure. Adrian, without removing his tongue from my inner folds, grips the back of my thighs and hoists me into the air.

I gasp—half-surprise, half-pleasure—as he hooks my legs around his neck and fully buries his face in my cunt.

Heat builds in my lower abdomen, and I lean into him, my hips angled towards his mouth.

Am I already…?

Another sweep of his tongue against my clit, and he suddenly sucks hard.

I totter over the edge of ecstasy, legs clamped around his neck as he mouths my clit.

Oh, my God.

I moan almost embarrassingly loud as I ride the wave of pleasure, and even once it’s over, his tongue lazily laps me up.

Holy shit.

When’s the last time I came that quickly?

Adrian detaches his mouth, almost reluctantly, and my legs twitch uselessly around his neck. “You know,” he breathes, his eyes hooded with desire. “You should make me apologize more often.”

I huff a laugh, and then, every bit like the doll he said I was, he effortlessly adjusts my position and carries me to the bed.