Chapter 3 3

His hand clamped onto the back of her neck. His thumb dug into the soft, sensitive skin behind her ear, holding her in place.

Blaire gasped.

Before she could exhale, his mouth crushed onto hers.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a collision.

His lips were hot and hard. He didn't ask for permission; he took it. She tried to keep her mouth shut, to keep her teeth clenched as a barrier, but he nipped her lower lip. Not gently. He bit her.

She gasped in pain, her mouth opening.

He took the opening instantly. His tongue swept into her mouth, deep and demanding, tasting her like he was starving.

A collective gasp went through the church. Then, the sound of a thousand camera shutters clicking at once. Click-click-click-click.

It was obscene. They were on the altar, in front of God and her grandmother, and he was kissing her like they were in a dark alley.

Blaire brought her hands up to his chest to push him away. She shoved against the black wool of his tuxedo.

It was like pushing a brick wall. He didn't move an inch.

Instead, his other arm snaked around her waist. He yanked her against him, eliminating the air between them. Her hips slammed into his.

He was hard.

His thighs were rock solid against hers, and she could feel the heat radiating off him through the layers of silk and wool. He pressed her into his groin, a vulgar, possessive claim that made her knees buckle.

Her brain short-circuited.

The smell of him-sandalwood, expensive scotch, and pure male aggression-filled her nose.

He held the kiss for ten seconds. Ten eternities.

When he finally pulled back, her lips felt swollen. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

She stared up at him, dazed, her chest heaving.

Declan's eyes were dark, the pupils blown wide. He looked satisfied. Like a cat that had just eaten the canary.

He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear again.

"Is that too much for you, Mrs. Singleton?" he whispered. His voice was rough. Mocking.

Heat flooded her face. She wanted to scream. She wanted to slap him.

But the crowd erupted into applause.

Declan turned to them, keeping her hand trapped in his. He raised their joined hands in the air, a victory salute.

He looked like a king. Blaire felt like a spoil of war.

"Walk," he commanded under his breath.

They started down the aisle. Her legs were shaking so badly she had to lean on him. He took her weight easily, his arm like an iron band around her waist.

They burst out of the heavy church doors and into the blinding midday sun of Fifth Avenue.

The noise was physical. A roar.

Police barricades held back a mob of onlookers and paparazzi.

"Mr. Singleton! Mr. Singleton!"

"Why the switch?"

"Ms. English! Is this a hostile takeover?"

"Was Jeffery fired?"

Microphones were shoved in their faces.

Declan stopped on the top step. He looked out at the chaos with bored indifference. The crowd quieted down, intimidated by his sheer presence.

A reporter from the Times shouted, "Declan! Why did you step in? Is this a business arrangement?"

Declan looked at the camera. He pulled her tighter against his side, his fingers digging into her hip.

"Because," he said, his voice carrying over the noise, "I couldn't stand the thought of her belonging to anyone else."

Blaire's head snapped up.

He said it with such conviction. For a split second, her heart skipped a beat.

Then she remembered who he was. A liar. A shark.

He guided her down the stairs and into the back of a waiting Rolls Royce Phantom. The heavy door thudded shut, sealing out the noise.

Silence. Instant, cold silence.

The moment the door closed, Declan released her. He didn't just let go; he recoiled. He slid to the far side of the leather bench seat, putting as much distance between them as possible.

The mask fell.

The passion, the possessiveness, the heat-it all vanished.

He pulled out his iPhone and started typing furiously. His face was a blank slate.

Blaire sat there, stunned. Her lips were still tingling from his bite. Her body was still humming from the contact. And he was checking his email.

She felt dirty. Used.

She raised the back of her hand to her mouth and wiped her lips hard, trying to scrub off the taste of him.

"Don't," Declan said. He didn't look up from his phone.

"Don't what?" she snapped.

"Don't rub your mouth raw. We're going to a reception, not the ER. You need to look perfect."

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a white linen handkerchief. He held it out to her without looking at her.

"Here."

Blaire stared at the handkerchief. She wanted to throw it in his face.

Instead, she snatched it from his hand. She crumpled it in her fist, her nails digging into her palms.

"You're despicable," she whispered.

"I'm your husband," he corrected, scrolling through a message. "Get used to the difference."

The car turned onto Fifth Avenue, heading toward The Pierre.

"Where are we going after the reception?" she asked, her voice hollow. "I assume I'm going back to my apartment to pack?"

Declan finally looked up. His eyes were cold again.

"No," he said. "You're moving into my penthouse on Central Park West. Tonight."

"I am not," she argued. "We can maintain separate residences. It's a fake marriage, Declan."

"It's a real marriage, Blaire," he said softly. "With real assets and real public scrutiny. You are moving in. Tonight. Prepare yourself."

He went back to his phone.

Blaire looked out the window as the city blurred by. She felt like a prisoner being transferred to a maximum-security facility.