The Villain: A Billionaire Romance (Boston Belles Book 2)

My main issue was, I didn’t know how to cook.

My second issue was, I actually hoped fixing Kill a home-cooked meal (which was very likely to taste like mothballs) was going to make a difference.

But my third and most pressing issue was the one I concentrated on right now—I was pretty sure I was setting my husband’s kitchen on fire.

Maybe it was Karma bitch-slapping me for playing dirty.

Once it had become obvious that Husband Dearest wasn’t going to make the first step to see me, I’d decided to drop by his office and milk a dinner date out of him.

I was desperate to form a connection while he was determined to protect my virtue. In many ways, it felt like having an impotent sugar daddy—I got all the perks but not the dick.

The problem was, I wanted the dick. The shoes were great, but not so great I wanted to moan their names.

I’d asked that it would be at his place because I wanted to invade his space, rip out his walls, and claw my way into his life. Being married to a man who didn’t want me—who actually actively sought ways to get rid of me—felt like swimming against the stream. I was exhausted but determined. Because failure meant heartbreak. And because no matter how much Cillian was trying to prove everyone otherwise, I genuinely believed that deep down (and I meant very deep, as deep as the rigs he drilled), that thing in his chest was a ferocious monster. Locked, chained, and heavily sedated but very much alive.

“Holy fu…what’s that smell?” Petar jogged into the kitchen, grabbing a towel from the counter and flapping it around to clear out the smoke in his path.

Even though we’d agreed on meeting at seven sharp, Kill wasn’t around when I got here. Petar, his estate manager, said he was swimming, getting his daily exercise, and would join me shortly.

Despite the fact I prided myself in not having a temper, I had to keep my irritation in check.

“I’m trying to make lemon chicken and risotto.” I staggered away from the hissing pot in front of me. “I guess trying is the operative word here.”

Petar rushed to my side, turning the stove off. He withdrew the sizzling pan from the stovetop, dumping it into the sink and turning on the faucet. Black smoke rose to the ceiling, setting off the fire alarm around the ginormous kitchen.

The shrieking sound pierced my eardrums, shaking the entire mansion. Petar proceeded to turn off the oven, then open all the windows and the door leading to the backyard. I apologized profusely while he got the small fire under control.

“Remind me why you insisted on making dinner?” Petar waved a kitchen towel in the air, trying to get rid of some of the smoke.

Explaining that ridiculous things found their way leaving my mouth every time I was next to his boss wasn’t an acceptable answer. So I went a different route. “I wanted to have a special evening.”

“It’s special, all right.” Petar snorted as he produced his phone from his back pocket.

“I’ll call the maintenance guy. See if he can start working on the kitchen tonight if I throw in a few extra bucks.” Petar scrolled through his contacts. “Although I gotta say, the boss is not gonna be happy.”

“Why am I not going to be happy?” A chilling voice rang behind my back. I turned around, sucking in a breath. My husband stood at the doorway, not even a foot away from me, freshly showered and shaven, his dark chocolate hair damp and tousled. The simple white V-neck and sweatpants clung to his lean body like eager fangirls, and his biceps and forearms were still flush and taut from his workout.

The twinkling golden band on his finger, which I noticed he hadn’t removed since our wedding, caught the light in the room, reminding me that at the very least, he was legally mine.

“I burned down your kitchen.” I tilted my chin up.

Better not to mince words. Besides, the huge black stain on his ceiling above the stovetop was visible from Africa. Chances were, he didn’t need me to spell it out for him.

He studied the stain, his cold, dead eyes returning to mine.

“Deliberately?”

“No.”

“Are you hurt?”

The question caught me off guard. I felt my brows bunching. “No.”

Kill sniffed the air. He had the maddening ability to do the most mundane things in a sexually charged way. He raised his arm, snapping it in Petar’s direction, still looking at me.

“Out.”

“Yes, sir.”

Petar scurried out, shutting the door behind him. The fire alarm stopped, and the chill from the evening breeze replaced the suffocating smoke.

My husband took a step toward me. A hot whip of pleasure struck my skin at his proximity. I wore something sexy tonight. A champagne-colored pleated dress that barely made it to my thighs paired with Louboutin heels—one out of thirteen new pairs I’d been gifted by my husband.

He clasped my chin in his fingers, angling my head up, his eyes honing in on mine.

“What was on the menu?”

“Lemon chicken and risotto.”

“What the hell were you thinking?”

I wasn’t. I wanted to impress you.

“Maybe I wanted to poison you.” I narrowed my eyes.

A ghost of a smile passed his lips.

“The only person you’re capable of poisoning is yourself, as demonstrated a few years ago. Even then, you botched the job.”

“Hey, I did a great job. It’s not my fault you saved me.”

“I still have my regrets.” He gave me a playful shove. I took a step back, my eyes never leaving his.

“Here’s the thing. You had your stab at cooking dinner, and you blew it. I have a poker game in a couple of hours. Which means we’ll have to skip the first course and get straight to the entrée.”

“You scheduled a poker game tonight?” I felt my eyes flaring.

He took another step forward, and I instinctively stepped back. He was cornering me. Trapping me into his cobwebs while I desperately tried to think straight.

“You weren’t planning on spooning in front of When Harry Met Sally, were you, Flower Girl?” he asked, giving me a mocking pout.

I wanted to tell him to go to hell and stay there for the foreseeable future, but just as I opened my mouth, my back crashed against the kitchen island. Kill grabbed me by the waist, hoisted me up, and balanced me over the marble. The cold surface hit the back of my thighs, and I sucked in a breath, waiting for him to kiss me, to touch me, to do something wild and raw and uncontrolled, the way he did at our wedding.

Instead, he produced a small satchel from his back pocket, tearing it open.

I frowned.

“A condom?”

He tsked.

“Lube. As I mentioned before, getting you off is not a part of my job description.”

“I’m not a whore.” I pushed him off.

“Sex worker,” he corrected blandly. “Trust me, no one mistakes you for one. If you were an escort, I’d flip you over and plow into you by now.”

My face flamed. “You’re getting your paid company off?”

“Unfailingly.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do. And because there is absolutely zero chance of my forming any attachment to them or vice versa. It is not too late for IVF, Persephone. Do the right thing and leave the dirty fucks for the mistresses. You’re better than that.”

The way he said that dryly with the satchel of lube still dangling between his fingers made me realize he’d planned this all along.

He lured me in here, kept me waiting while I made dinner, then took out the lube to humiliate me. He angered me like I angered him at his office. Threw me off balance to put me off the idea of having sex with him.

Cillian wanted me to leave here untouched with a promise to try IVF.

I couldn’t help but notice his reason for not wanting to touch me.

I was too good.

Not a mistress.

Not an escort.

A spark of hope ignited in my chest. I was determined to beat him at his own game even though he changed the rules so often he made my head spin.

“Fine.” I shrugged, trying my best to appear calm. “You win.”

He nodded, stepping back from between my thighs. “I know an excellent fertility expert. Dr. Waxman. I’ll see that—”

“No. I meant I’m fine with the lube. Hand it over.” I opened my palm, stretching my arm in his direction. He paused, eyeing me as though this was a test.

When he didn’t make a move, I wiggled my fingers. “Go on.”

“You won’t come,” he hissed.

I rolled my eyes, shimmying my panties down my legs. “Let me tell you a little secret, Kill. We women often don’t.”

“You’re stubborn.”

“So are you,” I answered. “How far are you going to take this thing?”

“A mile further than you will,” he assured me. “I never lose, Flower Girl.”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

“Not with me.”

“I guess only time will tell. Hand me the lube,” I repeated. “Rules are rules, and we had an agreement.”

Reluctantly, he disposed the lube in my hand. I squeezed it on my fingers and slid the cold, wet thing into my channel, sucking in a breath at the sudden intrusion. It felt like an OB-GYN exam, and the fact that secretly—stupidly—I’d been dreaming about this moment for years, of being with Cillian intimately, made me swallow down a lump of tears.

I spread my legs, allowing my dress to hike up my thighs, exposing myself to him. My husband snuck a quick look between my thighs, his throat bobbing. He looked away, color rising on his sharp cheekbones.

This adamant, fearless creature in front of me told me he was incapable of feelings, but he did feel something now—discomfort. Excitement. Dread.

He stepped forward, settling between my legs, still fully clothed. The air crackled between us, and the fine hair on my arms prickled with anticipation.

I leaned back on my forearms, biting the corner of my lip. He pushed his sweatpants down, his eyes transfixed on an invisible spot behind my head. He was determined not to be present when it happened. Refusing to touch or look at me. He released his cock from his underwear. He was painfully hard and engorged, a pearl of cum on his tip.

At least now I knew our problem wasn’t physical attraction.

He angled himself toward my entrance, his wry expression making him look like he was a man on death row, then slid in all the way in one go, filling me to the hilt. His eyes rolled, his gaze drifting to the ceiling as he suppressed a hiss.

I was not only wet—I was soaked. My center hot and inviting. I grabbed his cheeks, slanting his face so he’d look at me. His nostrils flared, his lips pursing into a thin line. He didn’t move inside me. We both knew it felt too good. Too right. We fit perfectly, and I struggled to maintain control when every muscle in my body shook, threatening to surrender to the acute pleasure rolling through me.

I reached behind my back, tugging at the string that kept my crisscross dress fastened, and let it loose. The fabric fell at the front, exposing my heavy breasts.

Cillian’s breath hitched. He looked away again at the wall, pulling out, then driving into me once.

Thrust.

Thrust.

Thrust.

His movements were measured, controlled, designed to hold back. He wasn’t here. Not really.

“Nice kitchen,” I commented, making idle conversation. I refused to allow him to forget I was in the room as he sank into me. As my muscles involuntarily squeezed around his heavy hardness, begging him for more. Tremors danced along my skin. “Did you get it remodeled recently?”

He grunted, squeezing his eyes shut and driving into me again with more force. I let out a moan. I didn’t mean to take pleasure in this, just as I was pretty sure Cillian didn’t mean to hit my G-spot. Regardless, both those things happened, and I felt my thighs quivering around his narrow waist. The hot, pressed-silk of his cock drove me mad, and my mouth watered.

Thrust.

Another whimper escaped me.

“We fit so good,” I purred.

He covered my mouth with his palm, looking pained and disgusted with both of us.

Thrust.

I threw my head back, pressing my eyes shut as I felt my breasts bouncing to the pace of his jerks. I hated that I enjoyed it. Hated that I was going to come apart completely unprompted. But I couldn’t blame myself. Cillian was a fantasy, and having him inside me was enough to ignite my world and detonate it into a different galaxy all by itself.

Thrust.

“Kill.” I licked his palm on my mouth, inserting my tongue between his fingers.

Another exasperated groan from him. He picked up the pace, and I knew he was losing it. Losing the precious control he valued so much. The thing that kept him from taking his own wife to bed. I grabbed one of his hands, putting it on my breast, and clutched the wrist of the hand he still used to shut me up, licking his fingers one by one like the lollipop I had in my mouth earlier today, sucking each of them individually.

Thrust.

Thrust.

Thrust.

The orgasm uncurled in the pit of my stomach, warm and sweet. It slithered down to my legs, up to my chest and arms. Desire licked every inch of my flesh. My muscles tightened. Then he let out a harsh growl, grabbed the back of my thighs, and began plowing into me so hard and fast, I thought he was going to tear me apart.

“Cillian,” I cried out, clawing at the marble. He flattened me against the surface, threw my legs over his shoulders, and pounded into me harder, penetrating me deeper, the hand that lay dormant on my breast trekking up to my neck, grabbing it in a vicious hold.

Finally. Out of control.

He invaded me like a Roman army with a ruthlessness that robbed me of my breath, his hold bruising my neck, his hatred toward both of us at that moment scorching my soul.

I felt his hot cum shooting inside me, the violent ripples rolling through his muscled body between my legs.

His head flopped down, his face nestled by his shoulder, turned away from me like a wilted rose on a stem. I let my head drop back to the granite, laughing drunkenly.

I did it.

I made him feel.

Pleasure at the very least, but also anger and frustration and disgust.

A cold whoosh of air stroked the damp spot between my legs. I popped my eyes open, realizing my husband was no longer in the kitchen.

He left.

Straightening up and sitting down, I blinked.

“Cillian?” I looked around.

Mortified, I tied the back of my dress, put on my jacket and panties, and stumbled out of the kitchen, hunting for my husband.

His house was massive, boasting curved hallways, dozens of doors, and a stairway leading to a second floor. It was only my second time inside. Naturally, I’d never gotten an official tour.

I spotted Petar by the entrance, talking to a guy in khaki pants and a blue hoodie with a maintenance company name on it. They were heading toward the kitchen. Feeling like a thief, I tiptoed up the curved stairway before Petar spotted me. The second floor was wide and tall like a cathedral. Cillian’s house, much like his parents’, was more old-world luxury than the modern, kitschy pads you saw on Selling Sunset.

I worked my way through the rooms, pushing each door open halfway until I reached a pair of double doors that were presumably his room. I pressed my palm over the oak, not wanting to intrude, but hating to leave without a sense of closure, either. This was huge. We just had sex.

“Kill?”

No answer.

“Are you okay?”

It occurred to me that maybe he wasn’t. Maybe I pushed him too far, too fast.

Maybe you shouldn’t have laughed like a nut.

Pushing the doors open, I wandered into the room. It was gorgeously designed with off-white floors and beige walls covered with fantastic art. A balcony bled into an elaborated reading area and an office space with a strategic view of the back garden.

I noticed another set of closed doors. The bathroom. I walked over to them.

I was about to call his name again when I heard it. Pounding. A different kind of thrashing. Nothing like the pounding that happened downstairs, in the kitchen, with both of us sweaty and angry and desperate.

It sounded like a head smacking against the wall rhythmically. Labored breaths seeped from the crack under the doors.

Pressing my forehead to one of the doors, I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath.

“I’m sorry I pushed you,” I croaked. And I was. But I was also thrilled that I’d managed to pull something out of him that wasn’t indifference.

There was no answer.

“Would you like me to get you a glass of water? Maybe call Petar?”

The tap-tap-tap stopped. A second later came his voice.

“Leave.”

“I don’t want to leave like this.” I wringed my fingers in my lap. “Your friends are about to be here, and I—”

“Leave!” he roared like a beast.

Taking a step back, I glared at the closed doors. In the eight years I’d known my husband, he’d never raised his voice to anyone. Not even once.

He threw the doors open, stalking outside, looking like the devil himself. His eyes were dark and hard, the snarl on his face making chills roll down my spine. He had a busted lip, blood gushing out of it.

Since he didn’t let me touch him—kiss him, embrace him—I deduced I wasn’t responsible for it.

He did that to himself.

He hit himself.

He advanced toward me, quick and efficient. I tripped, nearly falling twice while trying to escape him.

“You got what you wanted. Now get out of my house and don’t come back until I call for you. If you don’t get out of here in the next five minutes, I’ll assume you want to see your husband’s true colors and get fucked in front of my friends on the poker table, slowly and all evening, while they watch.”

He stopped when I was cornered, flat against his wall. We were so close I could smell the sex on both of us. Cillian grabbed my neck. I felt the tender rings that had already formed around it from when we had sex.

“You think you escaped a bad relationship by marrying me.” He flashed me his Lucifer smirk. “You have no idea, Flower Girl. I pay them because fucking me is not a pleasure, it’s a job. Now”—he leaned close—“run.”

I did.

I fled before he caught me and did all the things he threatened to.

Bolting down the stairs, I took them two at a time. I crashed into Petar on my way out, clutching his shirt breathlessly.

“Can you call me a cab? Please?” My fingers shook around the collar of his shirt. “I’ll get the driver.” His eyes bulged out.

He was surprised and a little flustered by my state, shoving me out the door as though he, too, was afraid my husband would get to me.

It was only when I was tucked in an Escalade on my way back home that my heart slowed and my mind started working again.

My husband had a deep, dark secret that could ruin him.

Something he was ashamed of.

A weakness I’d almost unveiled.

And tonight, I got very close to finding out what it was.

I tossed and turned in my bed for the rest of the night, going through every emotion in the feelings book. I was angry, scared, worried sick, and vengeful. I hated Cillian for acting the way he did, but I also knew I played a big part of it. He’d always been mean and snarky with me but never cruel. I pushed him, and he felt hunted.

An injured animal thrown into fight-or-flight mode.

A text message lit the pitch-black bedroom. I reached for my nightstand, grabbing my phone. It pained me that I didn’t even consider it could be from him.

Hunter: Your husband is an asshole.

Me: Tell me something I don’t know.

Hunter: All polar bears are left-handed. Bet you didn’t know that.

Hunter: Also, and relatedly, your husband is an asshole who checks his phone every five seconds. Are you guys texting?

Me: No.

Hunter: Weird. He always logs off during poker nights.

Me: Can you do me a favor?

Hunter: What kind? I’m a married man. I know Kill is nowhere near the realms of my perfection, alas, you missed the train.

Me: A—delusional. And B—not even if you were the last man on earth.

Hunter: What’s the favor?

Me: Keep an eye on him. See that he is okay.

Hunter: And you care because…?

Me: He is my husband.

Hunter: I thought that was only on paper.

Me: You thought wrong.

Hunter: Other than the phone shit, he looks like the same old Kill to me. Chain-smoking, drinking devil who needs a good hug and a great fuck.

Me: Night.

Hunter: Obvs, silly. x

Cillian had managed to overcome whatever it was that happened to him in less than an hour. That was peculiar. And alarming. But at least I knew he was remorseful enough to check his phone for a message from me.

Guilt was a feeling, after all.

Unless he is checking it for work-related stuff.

When dawn broke over the sky, I padded to my terrace barefoot, relishing the heated floorboards and extravagant French doors. Looking outside, I spotted a lone cloud sailing north.

“What do I do, Auntie Tilda?” I whispered.

She didn’t answer.

I picked up my phone to type my sister a text. Ask her if she remembered the days when Auntie took us to the carnival. How delirious with joy we were.

To my surprise, there was a message waiting for me.

A message from a number that had yet to answer all twenty-seven text messages I had sent it while I planned our mutual wedding.

Cillian: It won’t happen again.

Even though I knew exactly what he meant, I decided to press where it hurt. Lure him out of his cave a little more.

Me: The sex part, or the part that came after it?

Cillian: The part I’m not proud of.

What was he doing awake at five? Maybe he had trouble sleeping after last night, like I did.

I sat on a recliner on the balcony, rubbing at my forehead.

Me: Still doesn’t answer my question.

Cillian: My outburst was out of line.

Knowing he’d been pushed far enough—I’d never heard my husband apologize to anyone—I changed the subject.

Me: My Auntie Tilda, the one who chose my name, told me that every time I see a lone cloud in the sky, she is watching me. There’s only one cloud outside now.

After putting my phone on the table by the recliner, I stood and went about my morning. Brushed my teeth, curled my hair, and got dressed, knowing there was no chance my husband was going to grace me with an answer.

When I returned to the balcony table, after flicking the coffee machine on, I noticed my cell screen was lit with an incoming message.

Cillian: Are you on drugs? Sobriety was not a part of our contractual agreement only because I assumed it was a given.

Snorting out a laugh, I typed back.

Me: Look outside. Do you not see it?

Cillian: Your dead aunt on a cloud? No.

Me: She is not ON it. She IS it. Let me send you a pic.

I raised my phone to the window, snapped a picture of the perfectly fuzzy cloud, and sent it over to him.

Me: Well?

Cillian: Nice to meet you, Persephone’s aunt. You two look nothing alike.

Me: Who is being cute now?

Cillian: Me, apparently.

Me: Don’t worry, I know you’re incapable of anything good and moral. Having a sense of humor won’t tarnish your wickedness.

Cillian: Is that a hint?

Me: What do you mean?

Cillian: The Arctic drilling.

Did I hate the idea of him drilling holes inside the Arctic to see if he can find oil, ruining an already fragile part of the world? Of course I did. It made me sick to my stomach, to think the man I loved and directly profited from did that. But I also recognized talking about it with him now, when we were starting out, wouldn’t make him move an inch. If anything, he’d probably drill in a few more places just to spite me.

Me: It’s not a hint. I think my position on the matter is clear.

Cillian: Batteries over SUVs.

I grinned, remembering the sex toys innuendo he’d made at his office yesterday afternoon.

Me: Correct.

Cillian: Look at your garage, Flower Girl.

I made my way downstairs to the building garage.

Sure enough, there was a brand new red Tesla sitting on my apartment’s allotted spot.

He bought me a car.

An electric car.

The type of vehicle that was supposed to put him out of business eventually.

Not missing what it meant, I typed my husband a reply with shaky fingers.

Me: Thank you.

Cillian: Batteries are for pussies.