Rita
“Welcome home,” he says as he ushers me into his apartment.
It’s at the top of an expensive, fancy building in downtown Dallas. I didn’t think people actually lived in places like this, but apparently, I was wrong.
Scar’s space is obscenely nice. Grays, whites, blacks, muted colors. Leather couch, enormous windows, modern kitchen with gleaming appliances and one of those obscene hidden refrigerators that cost like fifty grand. “Not very…” I trail off, tapping my lower lip. “Not very personal.”
“Personal?” He cocks his head. “You’re right. I travel half the year.”
“I know, but still.” I poke my head into the enormous master bedroom. “No pictures. Barely anything on the walls. It looks like you hired someone to make it look good and just-stopped there.”
“Because that’s exactly what I did.” He steers me toward the home gym. It’s suitably decked out with weight machines and a couple treadmills. Plus a little steam room toward the back.
“Okay, I’ll admit it, I like this,” I say, running my fingers down the railing on the elliptical. The gym is almost nice enough that I can forgive the serial-killer vibes I’m getting from the rest of the apartment. “How long have you been here?”
“Six years.”
I bark a laugh at him. “Six years? And you don’t have a single picture of anyone anywhere?”
“Like I said, I travel a lot, as you well know.”
“Still,” I say softly, moving past him and back toward the kitchen. “I’m not even that close with my family and my place had pictures of me and my parents.”
“I don’t like gathering things,” he says, making a face. “I don’t need the clutter.”
“Clutter is personality.” I stand by the windows in the living room, looking out at the breathtaking view of Dallas. All right, I’ll admit, this apartment is like a psychologist’s wet dream, but I can definitely get used to staying here.
“No, clutter is junk. It’s are placement for a personality. You’re mistaking filling your life with useless stuff for having actual goals and dreams and aspirations.”
I glare at him in the window’s reflection, making a face. “Are you saying I don’t have a personality?”
“No, I’m saying that stuff doesn’t matter. I could have the most impressive things and still be empty.”
I shrug, not really agreeing, but not willing to argue either. Decorations, pictures, knick-knacks and paintings on the walls are all indications of a life. They’re representations of an existence. This place, it feels cold and barren, like his world is somewhere else. Like all he does is eat, sleep, and work.
But that’s not a personality. That’s just drifting. Trying to get ahead for the sake of trying.
My place had life in it. Colors, objects to remind me of my past, paintings I liked. Sure, decorations turn invisible after a little while, but still. I put effort into my surroundings.
It’s like he doesn’t care about this apartment.
“Here’s where you’ll stay,” he says, showing me to the guest room. It’s smaller than the master, but it has its own bathroom and the bed seems comfortable.
I run my fingers over the bureau. It’s a good space. “Now we need to have an awkward conversation,” I say.
His eyebrows raise. “If you want to discuss conjugal visits-”
“I’m pretty sure the whole no-sex thing is very much in the contract.”
“Contracts can be amended.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal.
I glare at him. “No. Sex. Don’t get any stupid ideas, like maybe accidentally coming into my room in the middle of the night in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs and a huge hard-on.”
“Would that work? Also, thank you for assuming it’s huge.”
“God, you’re insane. Seriously, insane. Can you please listen to me?”
“Huge and pierced,” he says, grinning.
My mouth falls open. Pierced? Really? But no, I am not thinking about his pierced cock. I’ve never even seen a pierced cock before.
I glare at him, annoyed he got me all excited imagining what he’d look like with a massive hard-on and nothing else.
“Stay on topic,” I say, forcing myself to concentrate even though I’m licking my lips. “I need clothes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Scar.”
“Fine. You need clothes.” He sighs. “How much?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I haven’t had to buy an entirely new wardrobe before.”
“Black Amex it is then.” He takes it from his wallet and tosses it over. “You should be familiar with that by now.”
“Are you giving me limits?”
“Be reasonable. That’s my limit. Otherwise, get yourself what you need. Work clothes, exercise clothes, casual and lounge stuff, underwear. Treat yourself to some lingerie if you’d like.”
“Scar,” I say. “You’re flirting dangerously with the no-sex clause.”
“I didn’t say wear the lingerie for me. I said to treat yourself.”
“Oh, then I can wear it for someone else?” I bat my eyelashes innocently.
His face darkens. It takes me by surprise, how sudden and intense he looks at me, like he’s contemplating murdering this fictional man.
“You’re my wife now,” he says, voice pitched low. “You’re mine, Rita. You will not fuck anyone while you’re mine.”
“I’m sorry, we didn’t discuss that.”
“No sex means no sex.” His sudden, possessive glare sends a shiver of excitement down my spine. Scar always seems uptight and controlling, but this side of him is a hint at the passion underneath the cold exterior. I didn’t know he could turn into a total manhandling beast on the drop of a dime, and the stupid horny side of my brain actually likes it.
Okay, get it together. I am not sleeping with my possessive husband.
“That’s not what I meant,” I say, clearing my throat. “I was teasing you, but fine, I don’t even want to sleep with anyone. I can take care of my needs all by myself. I’ve been doing it for years.”
He licks his lips. “How often?”
“Excuse me?” My eyes widen. Is he seriously asking about that right now?
“How often do you get yourself off? So I know to give you privacy.” There’s a heat to his gaze that simultaneously gets me extremely excited and makes me exceedingly nervous.
“I’m not sharing my masturbation habits with you.” I glance away, heart racing. “If I’m busy, I’ll lock my door.”
Really, it’s every night, but I’m not telling him that.
“Good to know,” he says softly, voice husky, nearly a purr.
My cheeks turn bright red with embarrassment. “Okay, on that note, I’m going shopping.”
“Enjoy yourself. Get something to make this place feel more like home.”
I hesitate, eyeing him cautiously. “You’d let me change the decorations?”
“It seems to matter to you more than it matters to me.”
“I’m honestly surprised. You don’t seem like the kind of man that would relinquish control over… well, anything.”
“There will be rules. You will learn to follow them. But for now, we need to make this place feel like we both live in it.”
I sigh and roll my eyes to the ceiling. “I’m really looking forward to you giving me shit for eating in the living room.”
He shakes his head. “There’s no food in the living room. Or in the gym.”
“Scar, if I’m going to live here, I’m going to live here. You can’t expect me-”
But he’s grinning and walking away. I clamp down on my retort, glaring at his back as he disappears down the hallway.
Bastard was baiting me.
This whole thing is a mess. I slump back onto my bed. It’s surprisingly soft and springy for an extra mattress. I look around at the room and slowly realize that this place is bigger than any bedroom I’ve ever had before. And it’s not even the master.
Scar’s place is beautiful, but it’s cold. It’s exactly like him.
Now that I’m here, I’ll try to make it feel more like a home.
For the game. For the fake marriage. Not for any other reason.
I’m doing my time, sticking to my role, and getting my money. I will not get attached to this life, to this man.
I won’t start to like his rough, possessive stares, or the way he casually talks about sex.
I will not picture his big, pierced cock. Or his muscular forearms as he pumps his hand up and down his own shaft.
I jump to my feet. “Shopping,” I say out loud like dousing myself with cold water. “Time for shopping.”
Otherwise, I’m going to fall into some seriously off-limits daydreaming, and it’s way too early in our fake relationship to go down that route.