That night, she was running through the casino, away from her former best friend and all of her bridesmaids.
She told me everything over tequila shots in the back of a limo as we drove around Vegas – a slurred confession to me, her drunken priest.
Except that I'm the opposite of chaste.
And I've had nothing but the most impure of thoughts when it comes to Isabella Kensington.
"I was busy," she says, clearing her throat.
"I hope you properly disposed of your ex-fiancé’s body," I say, my tone light, joking, except there's a surprising undercurrent of irritation that runs through me at the thought of that asshole who cheated on her with her best friend.
A smile pulls at the corners of her mouth, then disappears just as suddenly. "I'm sure you have people that could do that for me," she says.
"Actually, we do," I say. "There's a secret branch of the military. If you need the ex-fiancé and ex-friend murdered, I'm happy to have it arranged. You are my wife, after all."
"You're a perfect gentleman," she says. “No one’s offered to have anyone murdered for me before.”
I reach up to tuck the wayward lock of her hair that keeps coming undone, back behind her ear, and when I touch her, she closes her eyes lightly, moving her face ever so slightly against my hand. Her lips part, just barely, and I think that if she allowed herself to do it, she'd be moaning right now.
The thought makes me hard as a rock, my cock pushing against the fabric of my pants.
I lean in close to whisper against her ear. "I'm definitely not a gentleman," I say, tracing my finger behind her ear and down the side of her neck. She tilts her head slightly to the side, and her chest rises as she inhales deeply, the top of her breasts exposed above the neckline of her dress. "Although I always let a lady come first."
Belle makes a strangled sound, and reaches up, pushing my hand away from her. “There’s going to be no coming involved.”
“Are you saying you’re not a lady?” I tease.
She narrows her eyes as she looks at me, anger replacing her arousal. “Did you know who I was when you met me? You had to know who I was.”
“Are you insane?” I ask. “I bumped into you in Vegas. Does that sound planned to you?”
“There’s no way this was a coincidence – these kinds of things don’t happen in real life. My mother had to have shown you photos, told you who I was.”
“She did show us a few photos, but no offense, luv, I didn’t really give a shit about what my new stepsister looked like,” I say.
Obviously, if I had realized how hot Belle was going to be, I’d have paid significantly more attention. I didn't even know she was going to be in Vegas – or that I was going to be in Vegas. It was an impromptu week of debauchery with my friends. I'd tired of Europe, and what better place for debauchery with American women than Las Vegas? I had no idea who she was when I met her – it wasn't until we signed the wedding paperwork that I recognized her last name. And by then, well, I was too drunk to care.
“How did you know I was in Africa?” she asks.
I shrug, the gesture more nonchalant than I feel. So what if I did a little research on her after the Vegas trip? It’s not every day that a girl I spend all night just talking to – and marry, no less – ditches me and runs off without so much as a see you later.
I found out that Belle had been off the radar for two years, doing some charity work in Africa. She’d only been back in the United States for a few days before the infamous Vegas trip. And I found out that she was Sofia Kensington’s daughter.