Liam

Amira didn’t pick me up at the airport. I wasn’t surprised. I arrive home an hour later than planned, drop my bag on the floor by the door, and head to the bedroom to change and shower. The bright California mansion is quiet other than the thump, thump, thump of Amira’s feet slamming onto the treadmill in the home gym upstairs. Nice . . . she forgot to pick me up at the airport because she’s working out. Typical fucking Amira. She could at least pretend to be a good wife if she’s going to live in my house.

I pull my t-shirt from the back of my neck over my head with one hand and toss it on the bed, toe off my shoes, and make my way into the en suite bathroom. Amira’s thumping has stopped. I’m sure she’s coming to hit me with some heavy manipulation tactics. And if today is anything like the night three months ago when I passed through town on tour, she’s probably about to spread on a thick layer of seduction. That’s how Amira plays her derelict game.

“Hey, handsome. I thought I heard the door.”

I glance back into the bedroom and see Amira standing there, sweat dripping down her face. She has a water bottle in her hand and she’s dabbing her neck with a towel. Dressed in a pair of tiny workout shorts and a sports bra with no makeup, she almost looks sweet . . . almost.

I am the only person she allows to see her without makeup. I’ve never understood why, because she’s drop dead gorgeous without cosmetics. But unless she’s going to be at home, she smears that shit all over her face the second she’s out of the shower, every day without fail. She told me her father began demanding she wear a full face of makeup when she was twelve ‘to make her prettier’. What an asshole.

“You were supposed to get me at the airport.”

I drop my pants and turn my back on her to step into the shower. The hot water pelts my skin from five different showerheads. I place my hands on the wall and lean forward, dropping my head between my arms, and moan with relief. The twenty-two-hour flight was grueling, and it’s left me stiff and feeling grungy.

“I’m sorry, baby. I could have sworn you said you were coming home tomorrow and—you know—I was working out to stay in shape for my man,” she says with a shrug.

My manager texted her three times yesterday, and we spoke on the phone last night, but it’s not worth arguing with her about it.

“Amira, one of these days, you’re gonna have to get it straight that we are not the happy, loving married couple that you’ve dreamed up in that whacked out little brain of yours.”

She opens the shower door, letting all the cool air from the room inside. I shiver, and she misinterprets my reaction. Foolishly, and despite my harsh words, she thinks she is the one causing the goosebumps on my flesh. She couldn’t be more wrong.

“Oh, baby, you don’t mean all that,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Do you want me to make it up to you now, or later? Or maybe now and later.”

Her unique voice is smooth and seductive. It would have any other man on his knees, but this woman has done me wrong from day one. Right now, I’m really fucking tired, and all I want to do is go to bed.

I straighten up, keeping my eyes closed, and ignore her sex-a-thon invitation and begin to wash my hair. When it’s obvious I’m not going to take her up on her offer, she steps into the shower and closes the door. I hear the click of the shower gel bottle behind me, and then I feel her hands sliding over the tight muscles of my back.

“You don’t have to be such a baby, Liam. I mixed up the days. It’s no big deal. You had your crew with you, and somebody obviously brought you home. Now that you’re here, let me take care of you like a good wife.”

Her soapy hands slide around to grasp my thick cock. Her fake breasts press against my back while she begins to pump her hand up and down. I’m hard as fuck in seconds, and it pisses me off. I don’t want to want this woman. She’s a self-centered, conniving brat, but my body betrays me as she does the thing she does best. I’m so exhausted that I relax and just go with the flow—the slippery, wet, pulsing flow. When she slides one hand down to cup my balls, it’s time for me to take control.

“Turn around,” I command. She stops stroking my cock.

“Now.”

I don’t have to say it twice. She turns at the same time I do, and I pull her hips back and press my hand on the center of her back to bend her over. She grasps the edge of the stone shower bench, and I slide the head of my cock along her slit, teasing her until she’s soaked and panting.

“Liam, God, what are you fucking waiting for? Just do it already,” she says in her whiney Nicki Minaj voice.

Potential hot shower sex is ruined in one short sentence. The sound of her annoying tone was bad enough, but ‘just do it already’? I’d rather do it myself. I let go of her wet, round ass and turn back into the shower spray.

“Li-um!” She shrieks and stomps her foot like a spoiled child.

“Get out, Amira. I’m done with you.”

“You didn’t even start with me! How can you be gone for so long and not want to fuck when you get home? Unless you’ve been sleeping with someone else . . .” She shoves my shoulder from behind, but it doesn’t even move me. She’s all of one hundred and ten pounds to my two hundred of solid muscle. She thinks she’s tough because she works out seven days a week and studies Krav Maga, but she’s no match for me.

“Amira, I’m warning you.”

“’Warning me? No way. You’re fucking someone else, aren’t you? Hell, I’ll bet you just fucked your way through Europe on your tour. You know if I tell my daddy about this, your career is over,” she says.

That’s it . . . I’ve had enough. She tricked me into marrying her and moved into my house unbeknownst to me when I was on tour. She treats me like a hired hand unless she wants sex and spends money like it’s water on shit she doesn’t need. And now she’s accusing me of cheating when I’ve been keeping my shit on lockdown for six straight months! Fuck this fake ass marriage. I want out, and I want out now, reputation and fortune be dammed. I can’t be legally bound to this woman for another minute.

I slowly turn until we are eye-to-eye. I’m fighting the rage burning inside my chest. When she sees my expression, she takes a step back . . . first smart move she’s made today.

“First of all, I shouldn’t have to be faithful to you, because we both know you tricked me into this fucking joke of a marriage. Second, you’d be screaming my name right now if you knew how to speak to me with respect. And third, I haven’t touched another woman for the past six months. I may not remember marrying you, but there are pictures of the ceremony on every Goddamn website all over the Internet that prove I did. I’ve been true to whatever vows I exchanged with you, but right now? I’m done. Your dad can’t ruin my reputation anymore. I’m a fucking international superstar in my business. And it’s worth giving you half of everything I’ve broken my back to earn just to get rid of you. I want a divorce.”

I had no intention of confronting Amira with this shit today, but she provoked me, so there it is, the raw, unabridged truth.

Amira gasps and reaches out to touch me but changes her mind. She closes her hand into a fist and pulls it back, cradling it against her body.

“You don’t mean that, Liam. You love me. I know you do. You’ve had a long flight, and you’re just tired.”

She opens the door of the shower and continues reassuring herself out loud, something I suspect she learned as a child to ease the pain of her father’s severe criticism.

“You just need dinner and a good night’s sleep. You will be good as new tomorrow.”

She pauses with the shower door open. Steam billows out into the bathroom, instantly fogging the mirror while she continues to delude herself out loud.

“You don’t want a divorce, handsome. Get cleaned up, and I’ll go order some dinner.”

She wraps a towel around her body, leaving me alone to finish my shower while shaking my head. She’s crazy, and at times like this, even a little pitiful. But now I’m angry as fuck, and I have a massive hard on to take care of by myself. Thanks, Amira. Thanks a lot.