Hateful Games: (An arranged marriage billionaire romance) (Arranged Games Book 2)

Chapter Thirty-three

How do I always end up bound and as his prisoner around him?

My strength is no match against his. He always takes me by surprise that all my self-defense tricks I’ve learned turns to dust while my body becomes putty in his hands. Maybe it’s because my body doesn’t sense him as a danger.

Even though he is the biggest one.

Stupid brain.

“What are you doing?” I hate the tremor in my voice. My breath hitches when he raises his hand to flick the top button of his black shirt. It stretches across his bulging biceps and taut stomach. He’s intimidating with his clothes on, even while wearing a perpetual arrogant smirk. But he’s a whole other league of menacing without them.

With every article of material he shreds, he loses the last of his civility and the approachable yet untouchable mask he portrays in front of the entire world.

Having a front-row seat to watching him switch to his true colors.

I’m scared yet enamored.

Intrigued.

Even a little possessive. Because it’s the side only I see.

“Showering.” The word is clipped, his expression detached. A second ago, his eyes were burning with mischievous intensity.

Does he plan to force me to watch?My stupid heart trips over itself while a throb stirs low in my belly.

Another button. Another inch of his skin revealed.

With my hands knotted behind my back, there’s no protection against hiding my body’s reaction. The baby doll is a flimsy shield as it obscenely displays my curves. No barrier against the cool air caressing my skin, causing my nipples to pucker.

All Nova needs is to look closely.

He does.

Nevertheless, the indifference in his icy gaze doesn’t diminish. He’s pissed at my condition to live like strangers behind closed doors. Na?ve me thought he’d be relieved. I’m practically giving him permission to sleep with other women.

Any other man would rejoice with joy.

My husband, on the other hand, is mad.

Just my freaking luck. Men always want what they can’t have.

If I give him my body, it will inevitably lead to intimacy. Intimacy will lead to longing. Eventually the longing will twist an into emotional attachment. It will cause feelings to rise and hate to muddle into something dangerous and foolish.

I witnessed it all happen to Bianca.

No way I’m falling into the same trap. Some weird sort of Stockholm syndrome. Falling for my enemy.

Where will that leave me?

“Why do I need to be here for that?” I ask in an irritated tone while keeping my gaze pinned to his face. I have no interest in seeing him naked. And I haven’t forgotten the vivid memory of his eight pack abs being carved from stone. The light smattering of hair on his pecs, accenting his masculinity.

I most certainly don’t think of his anaconda cock.

To match his ego.

Maybe it’s not as impressive as the rumors have made it out to be.

“You don’t,” he replies and tilts his head. “But you’re in no position to leave either, are you?”

Twisting my lips angrily, I try to tug my hands free, hoping the tie will come lose. Was he a Boy Scout or something? No normal human is this efficient in knots. Then again, he loves to play games in the bedroom. So, of course, he had to skill up.

His shoulders move gracefully as he shrugs off his shirt. I keep my gaze averted and continue twisting my wrists, not willing to give up. Except, it does the opposite by tightening them further.

“Maybe try putting more force into it,” Nova flatly suggests. His gaze drifting below my neck, and he licks his lips. “I’m loving the sight of your tits shaking.”

I halt all movements.

He sighs sadly. “Ruined it.”

Assuming I’ll boldly let him ogle my nakedness and sate his curiosity while giving me the power and control of the situation has backfired on me. I’m coerced into a private striptease. Usually, the roles are reversed.

“When have I ever aimed to please you?” I retort.

“You have,” he answers mysteriously. The sound of unzipping plays heavily in the spacious bathroom and I try to not blush that he’s taking off his pants. “You just don’t know it.”

He’s your husband. One peek won’t hurt.

“Are you drunk?” No answer except the whooshing sound indicating he’s dropped his pants. “Because it might explain the utter bullshit spilling from your mouth.”

There’s a greater chance of me willingly drinking poison before I ever attempt to please him. I’ve lived with him for a week before, this shouldn’t be any different. My determination to resist him is far stronger than his hypnotizing and domineering aura.

It does not race my pulse.

Doesn’t call out to my bratty streak.

Nor does it make me wet.

Lies. Lies. Lies.

I lurch back when he’s in front of me in a flash. He doesn’t touch, just bends until his bare chest grazes against my impossibly hard nipples. His nostrils flare and his cut cheekbones harden.

“Just yesterday, you hated my guts for sleeping with Malcolm eight years ago and being your enemy’s daughter and now suddenly, you’ve forgotten it all. Of course, I’m going to assume you’re drunk or you hit your head.”

“Yesterday, you were just my fiancée,” he replies darkly. “Today, you’re my wife. You’re wearing my ring and have my goddamn name painted on your skin. It changes everything, Rose.”

“If I had my hands free, I’d throw the stupid ring in your face. Maybe that’ll get the message through your thick skull that I’m not yours.” My patience running thin, especially after a tiresome weekend, I snap at him, “Honestly, I’m sick of having the same argument over and over.”

No warning, he leans ever so close in my personal space. I swallow when his breath teases the skin of my collarbone, effectively shutting my mouth. I’m left momentarily frozen until I realize he’s freed my wrists. Just like that morning, he rubs the inner side with his thumb before withdrawing away from me. Stepping back until he’s no longer looming over me, he crosses his arms.

I stare at him, dumbfounded, fighting the urge to drool over his hard and powerful physique while unable to digest he let me go until he flicks his wrist impatiently.

“Go on, I’m waiting.”

My mind connects the dots and I glare. Hastily, I pull at the dazzling engagement diamond ring and screech, “Oww!”

Looking down, I see droplets of blood and a tiny angry white line. Frowning, I slowly tug at it and swallow the bite of pain. My head snaps to my husband, a sadistic gleam in his brown gaze.

“It will draw blood and leave a scar if you ever try to take it off, Rose,” he confesses unapologetically. “Cost me a fortune to have the secret feature added but so worth it.”

My gothic and dark-romance-loving heart would swoon if I didn’t hate him. Instead, my mouth drops in horror, and I growl, “You unhinged psycho.”

“Your unhinged psycho.”

Scrambling down from the counter, I promise him, “I’ll find a way to remove it.”

“No jewelry store is allowed to touch you or that ring without my orders, wife,” he reveals as though he is the dictator of my life. “I dare you to try.”

My comeback dies on my tongue when his hands move to his narrow waist. Before my mind can stop, my gaze follows the movement and time stands still when he lowers his boxers in one go.

Oh fuck.

He. Is. Pierced.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

The rumors didn’t fucking lie. Well, except for the thrilling piercing. I stagger back a step at the sight of his enormous cock for the first time. And he isn’t even fully hard, yet it runs along his thigh. The barbell glinting and making my clit throb.

I must look like I’m going to faint any second now.

I wasn’t prepared for this.

What sane woman can ever be?

Forget about his intimidating girth, that Prince Albert piercing should come with a warning. Never in a million years could I have imagined him having a pierced cock. Yes, I knew he is an adrenaline addict but to this extent—it’s the shock of my life.

Why am I not looking away?

“You—uh—tha…” I stutter, incapable of speech. Breathing hard, I shake my head. I’m seconds away from combusting into flames or dying from blushing too hard. Avoiding glancing at his face, I run out of the bathroom like my ass is on fire.

Otherwise, curiosity will dictate my actions where I’ll beg for a feel.

His low chuckle follows, leaving trembles in its wake.