I’m married to my business. She’s also my very demanding mistress. Doesn’t tolerate other women for long periods.
She sighed inwardly. It looked like she couldn’t even jump the right hot gardener. No, she had to accost one who was devoted to his business—it was like she had radar tuned to the kind of people who’d ignore adult ísa as her parents had ignored child ísa. Just as well she’d never see him again. The way her body had ignited for him, she didn’t trust herself anywhere near his vicinity.
Not when he was unsuitable, blue-eyed trouble.
Her toes curled inside her heels. Her lower body clenched. And her breasts, they seemed to well inside the cups of her bra.
And Devil ísa whispered, Nothing says you have to marry him, you idiot. Don’t you want to look back and have some wicked stories with which to scandalize your grandchildren?
7
Sailor the Merciless
SAILOR WENT TO BED ON FRIDAY night with a lush redhead on his mind. Was it any wonder that his body refused to settle down?
Groaning, he fisted the hard length of his cock and stroked. And thought about punishing his redhead for the torment. He wasn’t into pain or whips and chains, so maybe he’d tie her up and tease her until she begged for mercy.
He wouldn’t have mercy, he decided.
He’d lick and suck and keep her on the edge while he feasted. And he’d tell her how he’d thought about her as he stroked his own body. How he’d fantasized about sinking into her in a single deep thrust and feeling her so tight and wet around him. How he’d imagined stripping her bare so he could fondle her breasts and scrape his unshaven jaw over the delicate perfection of her skin.
His body shuddered; his back arched.
Crashing back down, the release easing his sexual tension but doing nothing to take his redhead off his mind, Sailor said, “Definitely no mercy.” His chest heaved up and down. “When I catch up with you, spitfire, it’s going to be all about revenge.”
Sweet, slow, erotic revenge.
Wickedness is underrated.
~ Nayna Sharma
8
Misbehaving Devil Women
SATURDAY NIGHT ARRIVED FAR TOO quickly.
ísa had spent Friday night dreaming of tangled limbs in the back seat of a certain truck; memories of the dream, of a blue-eyed man with a sinful smile, had even infiltrated her waking hours to leave her breathless. Tonight she decided she’d exorcise his ghost. Tonight she was going to have fun, dammit, and not be the granny her subconscious kept accusing her of being.
The worst thing was that Devil ísa was right.
It felt as if she’d been the adult in her family since she was fifteen. Oh, Jacqueline could run a multimillion-dollar business empire and negotiate stellar deals, but when it came to holding their scattered family together, it was ísa who did the heavy lifting. She’d realized on the day of Catie’s birth that if she didn’t step up to the plate, no one else would. Certainly not Jacqueline’s fourth husband, the man who’d fathered Catie.
ísa’s father, Stefán, obviously had no reason to look out for his ex-wife’s daughter with another man. Not that he’d much looked out for his own either.
Her phone beeped.
When she picked it up, it was to see her father’s handsome face flashing on the screen as if she’d summoned him out of thin air just by thinking of him. “Hi, Dad.”
“Your mother told me you’re finally taking more interest in her company,” he said in Icelandic, as if they’d just spoken yesterday instead of four months ago. “Good. Once you get some experience there, you can move into a vice presidential position in my fleet.”
ísa rubbed at her forehead. This, this was why her parents’ marriage hadn’t worked out. They admired each other enormously and remained close friends to this day, but they simply could not stop playing the game of one-upmanship when it came to business.
Even when it involved their daughter.
Switching to the same language Stefán had used, the language that still colored her English, she said, “How’s”—oh God, what was the name of her father’s current wife?—“er, Jenetta,” she finished, hoping he’d blame the pause on the international phone connection.
“Oh, Jenetta and I parted ways two months ago, sweetheart. She was lovely, but a touch vacuous in the brain-cell department.”
ísa winced on behalf of the departed Jenetta. “So you’re single?”
“Not for long! I was able to get an expedited divorce—I won’t bore you with the details of how. The wedding’s going to be in New Zealand. You know I like you to be part of the bridal party.”
Any other person might’ve been confused. Any other person was not ísa and hadn’t grown up with Stefán. “What’s the name of your fiancée?”
“Elizabeth Anne Victoria. Such an English name. Her parents are viscounts or something.” A verbal shrug that only a man who was one of the wealthiest in Europe could make—a man who’d already married and divorced a princess and two prima ballerinas. “I’ll send you the wedding invitation, but here’s the date.”
ísa dutifully noted it down.
Stefán hung up soon afterward as he’d received a call from a corporate partner on the other line. As she put down her phone, ísa realized she had no idea of her father’s current physical location. She’d also forgotten to subtly nudge him for more information about Elizabeth Anne Victoria—specifically, the new fiancée’s age. Morbid curiosity had her googling for a woman with that name who was the child of a viscount.
Two results came up.
One was an eighty-year-old married matriarch.
The other a twenty-one-year-old lissome beauty whose Instagram feed was full of images of her in various bikinis with captions that were either “motivational” sayings about working hard and achieving the dream or giggly reports about her latest vacation to some sun-drenched island so exclusive that you needed a private yacht to get to it.
According to her bio, she wanted to be the first woman to fly into space. Her goal was to be “an inspirational role model to younger women!” It seemed to have escaped Elizabeth Anne Victoria’s notice that a number of women had already beaten her to the stars. And that, to achieve her goal, she might need to study something other than the “meaning of life through a cocktail glass.”
“Lots of brain cells there, Dad,” ísa muttered, wondering if the ink would even have a chance to dry on the marriage certificate before Stefán got bored. For a smart man, he’d never made a sensible choice in marriage partners, Jacqueline included. He either chose barracudas like ísa’s mother or, lately, women who simply couldn’t keep up with the brain that had taken a fleet of failing cruise ships and turned it into a global empire.
Putting down her phone, ísa stared in the mirror again. Her father was about to cross the last line—he was going to marry a woman younger than his daughter. That was it. ísa had had it. “I don’t care what I have to do tonight,” she vowed, “but I am not coming home without misbehaving at least once!” No more playing it safe. Not tonight.