Chapter 5

Vivian

"There are many reasons why you should say yes to my proposal," he rumbles.

"Oh?" I wriggle around, trying to make myself comfortable.

The gown I'm wearing is a Karma West Sovrano original. It looked elegant and sexy on the hanger in the charity shop—which is the only reason I could afford it. It was meant for walking down an aisle, not for sitting down and having a tête-a-tête with the father of the man I was supposed to marry.

We're in the living room of his townhouse in Primrose Hill with sweeping views of the city. It's amongst the poshest neighborhoods in London. I know he's rich, but being here brings home how out of my reach this man is.

I handed over the keys of my rental car to him, and he arranged to have it returned. He's so in control, it's tempting to hand over all of my problems and have him find a solution. To lean on him and have him make my decisions.

I"ve had to depend on myself for so long. I"ve had to stay strong for my family. Then, along comes this man who seems to have the answers to my problems.

It's so tempting to hand over the reins of my life and have someone else drive for a while. It so happens, the man who makes me want to lean on him is older than me. And he‘s my ex's dad. This is so wrong. Worse? I haven't stopped thinking about his proposal. And here I am, in his house.

He's so charismatic, I have no doubt, given the chance, he'll convince me to marry him, too. He'll be so persuasive, I won't be able to say no. And I can't do that. How would Felix react to that? He was once my best friend. I can't walk all over his feelings. Even if he did stand me up at the altar.

Strange as it sounds, I really don"t think he intended to hurt me. Maybe he didn"t think it through. But I"m thinking this through, and I don"t want to intentionally hurt him.

My fingers tremble; I lock them together. "I... I shouldn't be here. This was a mistake."

I jump to my feet, take a step away, and trip on the train of the gown. I pitch forward and throw out my hands to stop my inevitable face-plant, only an arm around my waist halts my descent. The next moment, I'm set back on my feet.

He holds me in place, the warmth of his touch setting off frissons of excitement which travel to my core. I squeeze my thighs together. The movement is so slight, and yet, he seems to notice it, for his gaze sharpens. That woodsmoke and pine scent of his, laced with healthy male sweat, teases my nostrils. My nipples bead. My scalp tingles. I want him so much. Why does that make me feel like such a slut?And why do I not care that it does?

The heat from his broad chest slams into mine, and I sway toward him. His grasp on me tightens. He stares at my mouth. The pulse at his temple beats in tandem to the racing of my heart. He lowers his face, and his breath heats my cheek. My throat dries. Bam-bam-bam. My pulse rate goes through the roof.

Waiting. Waiting. This is it. He's going to kiss me now.His lips are so close. His nose bumps mine. And his eyes… Those silver sparks are joined by golden flares, which I thought I must have imagined seeing earlier. But no. There they are. Gold and silver in the midst of a storm of feelings. My eyelids flutter down.

The next second, cool air hits my front. The weight of his hand is gone from my waist. Without his support, I sway forward.

This time, he doesn't catch me. I find my footing and look around to find him striding out the room.

Huh?For a few seconds, I stand there, dazed. I already miss him. I want to follow him, to please him, to seek his approval, and to follow his orders. And goddam him, I don't want to resist it, either. Is that wrong? And so what if it is?

I"ve lived my life carefully, and look where that got me? Dumped and disgraced. I'm done with the safe, scared me who planned for the future and wouldn't do anything until she'd taken care of everyone else. I'm going to think of myself. Put my needs first.

And right now, I want someone else to make the decisions for me. Someone to take command and tell me what to do. I'm tired of being the responsible one. Tired of people always leaning on me.

What if I let myself lean on him?He's seen more of life. He knows what he wants and doesn't hesitate to go after it.

I want everything implicit in the promise of his smoldering glare. I'm turned on by the expert way with which he handles my body. I'm drawn to that confident manner of his which weakens my knees and appeals to that part of me which wants to submit... to him.

Without allowing myself to examine my thoughts further, I pick up my skirt and the short train, and trail after him. I walk through the hallway, past a conservatory, and into the kitchen. Late afternoon sunlight pours through the sliding doors which lead out onto a deck on one side. He's standing by the sink, filling a glass of water.

He turns, walks around the island in the center, and places it on the corner closest to me. "Drink," he orders.

I find myself reaching for the glass of water without conscious thought. What the—!? Apparently, there's no not obeying the command in his voice. And I love it. And hate it. And I want more of it.

And if I don't obey him? What would he do then?A thrill of anticipation unfurls in my core. And would I like what he"d do to me?

I already know the answer to that. It's why I tighten my fingers around the glass, lift it, and fling the water in his direction.

I must catch him by surprise, for he doesn't move. Water drips from his chin and wets the front of his jacket and shirt. Oops.

His lips thin. The tips of his ears grow white. The air between us zings with tension. He curls his fingers into fists at his side. I'm sure he's going to yell at me or, maybe, shake me by my shoulders. This is it; I've pushed him too far. I brace myself for the inevitable explosion.

He chuckles. The sound is unused, gravelly, and so rough. So sexy. My nerve-endings spark. That itch between my thighs deepens. I swallow and watch as he wipes the mirth off his face. "Next time, I won't be so forgiving."

"Because there won't be a next time." Yes, there will be.

He knows it. I know it. But I have to defy him. I have to push him to the edge. I have to cleave through that icy control of his so I can face the full brunt of his dominance. Dominance. I blink. He's a dominant? And there's a name for what he turns me into with that hard, deep, bossy voice of his. Submissive.

I quiver. My core clenches. I've read about this lifestyle. And also gotten off to it. Most women use vibrators to bring themselves to orgasm. For me, it"s been stories where he dominates her and commands her to get on her knees and suck him off before he bends her over and uses her as his own personal fuck toy.

I swallow. I've never dared say the four-letter word aloud, but I've read it plenty in novels. And yes, I"ve seen videos on Pornhub. But I never thought I wanted it for myself. Correction, I never met anyone who brought out that craving within me to be dominated. Is that why I'm so drawn to him?

Because this man... There's a confidence at his core. An assurance which confirms to me that he'll know what I want and give it to me. There's a coldness to his demeanor which signals he'll use my body to satisfy his urges... And that... Oh, my god. That turns me on so much.

"Are you hungry?" he asks.

"What?"

"Food. When was the last time you ate?"

"Food?" I shift my weight from foot to foot. Did I eat this morning? Nope. Last night? That would be another no. "Uh, I had breakfast," I offer.

"This morning or yesterday morning?"

I flush, then stiffen my spine. "None of your concern." I spoil the haughty tone I was striving for when I hiccup. Ugh! I should have accepted that glass of water, instead of throwing it at him, and no doubt, he's going to point that out to me with a knowing smirk.

Only, he doesn't. Without comment, he fills another glass with water and, heading back, places it in front of me.

"Thank you." I hand the empty glass in my hand to him and bring the one with water to my lips.

He heads to the refrigerator and pulls out a casserole in a microwave-proof dish.

I can't keep my gaze off of his solid figure. Can't stop tracking each movement of his, which is so precise, it gives away his military background.

He heats it up in the microwave, puts the food on plates, then walks back to the island and places it there, before grabbing some cutlery.

"I should clean the water on the floor," I murmur as I prepare to take my seat.

"I'll do it." He nods to the plate. "Eat."

He mops up the water on the floor, washes his hands, then walks over to take the seat opposite me.

I watch him take a bite, watch his jaw move as he chews, the tendons of his throat flexing. That itch in my core spreads, until I have to squirm around in my seat to try and relieve it.

Once more, he senses that little movement and tilts his head. "Everything okay?"

"Why wouldn't it be? I got ditched at the altar, then the father of my now-ex proposed to me, and I'm sitting opposite him in his house having dinner like nothing is wrong with my life."

"Everything is about to turn out fine in your life," he says in a confident tone.

I narrow my gaze. "If you'd had to fight to put a roof over your head, and food on the table, and take care of your family like I have, you wouldn't take anything for granted. It's your privileged background that gives you the luxury of being so assured about your future." Or maybe, it's also his experience?

He puts down his fork, and his features, once again, settle into neutral lines. "You know about my background?"

I play with the food on my plate. "Felix told me his grandfather started the Davenport Group and that his family was well off. He also mentioned he was estranged from his father."

It's one of the few bits of information Felix revealed about his relationship with his father. And having met Quentin, I understand how difficult it must have been for Felix to measure up to him. Quentin's confidence in himself is enough to shake any other man's self-assurance, and Felix didn't have much to begin with.

Breaking away from the family fortune was Felix's way of finding himself. But Quentin is a possessive man. The brief encounter in the bar, and the way he made sure everyone there knew I was his, proves it.

I mean, think that I was his. Which I"m not. Right? Right?!?

"What else did he tell you?" Quentin's features have an almost-bored look, but his gaze is sharp. He's interested in finding out more about his son.

"He didn't talk about you, or his mother, for that matter."

Quentin's expression doesn't change, but the light in his eyes dims a little. I feel sorry for him. And I don't know why. "He was angry with you. He felt you did him wrong."

"And he's right." Quentin runs his fingers over the short stubble on his scalp. The gesture reminds me of Felix messing up the considerably longer hair on his head every time he was anxious or upset about something. Ugh, I'm not sure how I feel about that.

It's one thing to contemplate marrying your ex's father, but this resemblance between them makes the situation downright uncomfortable.

"I'm not going to sugarcoat the situation. Fact is, after Felix's mother left us, I was quick to hand over the responsibility of child-rearing to my aunt."

"What about his mother?" I blurt out. I've never been curious about her before this, but having met Quentin, I have a burning need to find out more about the woman who bore him a child. A woman he was interested in enough to have a relationship with.

"She left." His voice is flat. "The only times I saw her after that were when she"d show up to ask for more money."

"What did you do? Did you send her the money?"

He stares at me with something like disdain. "Do you think I wouldn't? I'm not heartless. I knew I was partly responsible for her leaving us. I wasn't there for her when she was a new mother, struggling to take care of Felix. I put her on an allowance until Felix turned twenty-one."

Surprise and something like warmth coils in my chest. I wouldn"t have expected him to do that. Especially since, he comes across as all stern and grouchy, almost bordering on mean. "That was generous of you," I suggest.

"She was the mother of my son." He snorts. "No matter that she wasn't interested in meeting Felix or finding out how he was doing."

I stare at him in shock. "That's horrible."

"Not to mention, stressful. Over the years, she"s had a knack for turning up whenever anything big happens in my life. The only thing that made her go away was more money." He runs his fingers through his hair. "At least we weren't married. Saved me the bother of divorcing her."

He must see the consternation on my face, for he smirks. "Have I shocked you?"

"Not particularly." I pop a shoulder. "Maybe a little. But who am I to judge? I'm pissed off enough with what Felix did to wish I"d never met him."

His features tighten. "I'm sorry he did that to you. But also, I'm not." His gaze grows intense. "We wouldn't be sitting here, otherwise."

That warmth in my chest turns to sparks which zip down to my pussy. Gah, one look from him, and I'm wet. Correction: I've been wet since I first saw him at the church. I squeeze my eyes shut.

"We... shouldn't be doing this. I shouldn't be here. You're Felix's father. This is so wrong."

When he doesn't reply, I open my eyes to find him staring at me with an inscrutable look. "I understand the situation is unorthodox," he says slowly.

"That's putting it lightly," I snort.

"But if there's one thing I"ve learned, it's that, no matter what you do, there'll be someone who disagrees with you. You need to follow your instincts. So what, if no one else understands your actions? They're not in your situation. They don't know what you're going through. Only you can decide what's best for you."

I search his features and find honesty. He's not trying to sell me a load of bullshit. He means what he says. Guess there's some benefit to having more life experience?

"How... how old are you?" The words are out before I can stop them.

"I'm forty-nine," he says without hesitation.

"You're twenty-six years older than me," I whisper.

"Does that bother you?" His stance is relaxed, his gaze alert.

I consider his question carefully, then shake my head. "Honestly, no? I've often felt older than my years. And I've met people older than you who act like they never grew out of their teen years." I laugh. "I'm aware age has nothing to do with maturity."

His eyes gleam. He's pleased by my response, and that sends a flush of heat curling in my belly. Why is his approval so important?

"What's keeping you from accepting my proposal?" he asks carefully.

I cross one leg over the other, then uncross them. "Umm... Felix." I don't need to say anything else, for his jaw tightens.

He wipes all expression off his face. "You're right to be concerned about him. I am, too... but?—"

"But?" I ask through my suddenly dry lips.

"It doesn't change the fact that he didn't want to marry you."

That's true.

"You're a single woman, am I right?"

I nod.

"And you can choose who you want to marry?"

I nod again, slowly.

"And I won't give up until you agree to marry me"—he looks between my eyes—"which you will."

I can't stop the surprised laugh that wells up. "That's awfully confident of you."

He curls his lips. That's his response. That wicked smirk. And damn, but his arrogance turns my stomach inside out. Butterflies fan their wings through my blood. The tension between us stretches. The air grows thick and presses down on my shoulders. My nipples harden.

This man is lethal. Any minute now, I'm going to climb him like a tree and cling to him like I'm a koala bear. I glance away and rack my mind to say something to break the growing silence.

"You were saying—" I clear my throat. "You were saying, you brought him up on your own?"

His features tighten. Guess leading the conversation back to Felix wasn't the best diversion? But he's Quentin's son, and I do want to know more about their relationship.

His chest rises and falls, then he smooths out his forehead. "It was my aunt who brought him up." He shifts his weight on the bar stool. "I was busy setting off on yet another tour of duty, or so I told myself. I made sure I wasn't emotionally available for my son. I wasn't ready to be a father and deal with the emotions it triggered inside me. I never did bond with Felix."

His jaw hardens. "I made sure he never lacked for anything material, but emotionally, I was absent. Didn't help that I suspected his mother"d had an affair while I was away on tour, either."

A pulse throbs at his temple.

"It's one of the reasons I stayed away from her and, consequently, my son, for long periods of time. It never felt like I had a home to come back to. My team became my family, and being on tour became my reality. Fighting a known enemy seemed more manageable than fighting the unseen devils haunting my family life."

Oh, wow. That's quite a lot to take in. Definitely hadn't expected him to reveal so much. My heart goes out to him. After my mother died, I was thrust into the role of caregiver for my sister, and later, my father. It wasn't a responsibility I bore happily. While I didn't turn away from it, I withdrew into myself. I didn't socialize as much. Instead, I read a lot, discovering my love for poetry and later, painting.

We've both had to find ways to cope with emotional turmoil. He, with the loss of his family life. And me, with the loss of my youth and friendships when I had to step into my mother's shoes. Perhaps we"re not that different?

A soft sensation squeezes my insides. I realize I feel sorry for him. Not what I expected to feel for this larger-than-life alpha male.

For a few seconds, we stare at each other again. Then, as if aware of what he's revealed, Quentin rolls his shoulders. "You seem surprised that I shared that with you, but if we're getting married?—"

"That's a big if," I remind him.

"—it's best for me to be open so you can understand me better."

Is he that serious about marrying me? Does he intend to go through what I was sure was a moment of madness that made him propose to me without knowing who I was?

If he senses my confusion, he doesn't show that. Maybe, that's what he intended all along. To throw me off balance?

He nods at my plate. "Eat," he says in that voice that insists I obey.

On cue, my stomach grumbles. It's been more than twenty-four hours since I ate. And I do want to eat, but a part of me can't help but wonder what he'd do if I refused? What would happen if I challenged him, hmm?

When I don't respond to his command, his eyes smolder. "You realize, I won't let you get away with defying me, Ms. Wells?"

Ooh, his dark tone turns my pulse into a drumbeat of arousal. The triangle between my legs grows heavy. My heartbeat spikes, and I can barely stop myself from panting. "What... what would you do if I did?"

His gaze turns canny. He thinks for a little then nods. "I could spank you for your impertinence?—"

"What?" I squeak. Why do I find that so hot?

"But I'll settle for feeding you." He scoops up some of the casserole from my plate and holds the fork out in my direction.

My stomach rumbles again. My mouth waters. The food smells sooo good. Fine, fine. I lean in and close my mouth around the tines of the fork.

The creamy textures, combined with the savory rich umami flavors of the casserole coat my tongue in a warm, homey blanket of comfort.

When I look at his face, he's watching me closely. The skin is stretched tightly across his cheekbones, making them seem more prominent. The look in his eyes is both tortured and hungry, but it fades away so quickly… Perhaps, I imagined it?

"Did you make this?"

"Would it surprise you if I said I did?"

"Would it surprise you if I said I don't believe that?" I widen my gaze.

He half laughs. "You're right, I didn't. My housekeeper made it. It's one of my favorite dishes. A chicken casserole packed with water-chestnuts, celery, onions, and bell peppers, seasoned with curry powder, and held together with cheese sauce."

I send him an incredulous look. "So, you do cook?"

"I like being able to provide for myself." He scoops up some of the vegetables and holds the fork to my mouth. I take my time licking the tines. Once again, something sparks in his eyes; and again, he banks it.

When he resumes eating from his plate, I take it as a sign to polish off the rest of my food, then sit back with a sigh. "That was so good. It beats having pizza for two meals a day." I half laugh.

His expression grows stormy.

"You eat pizza every day?"

"Perks of working at a pizza parlor. Speaking of"—I point at my empty plate—"you can pass on my appreciation to your housekeeper."

"You can do so yourself."

I sigh. "I'm not moving in with you, and I'm not marrying you. This situation is bizarre. I shouldn't be here. This is all wrong."

"Not if I pay you a million dollars.

My fork clatters onto my plate. "Excuse me?" I choke out. "Did you say?—"

"I'll pay you a million dollars to marry me."

Is this guy for real? I manage to pick my jaw up from the floor. "You're offering to pay me a million dollars?"