Sparrow

“Chill out, Red. I have no interest in tapping your ass unless you’re willing and begging.”

“That’s interesting, because you sure seem to have a healthy interest in lingerie shopping. Too much spare time?” I deadpanned.

His smirk widened. “I didn’t pick those items.” He tilted his chin to the gift nestled in layers of tissue paper.

“No?” I blinked slowly.

“No…” He leaned forward, bringing his mouth closer to mine. “My mistress chose your gift.”

Sirens wailed in the distance, a truck beeped as it reversed and the angry hum of my blood buzzed in my ears. Still, somehow, time completely stopped despite the busy streets of Boston flashing by outside. Our driver kept swallowing hard and looking straight ahead robotically, but I knew he was listening. Saying I wasn’t comfortable having this conversation in front of a complete stranger was the understatement of the century.

I pressed my lips between my teeth, trying not to launch at my husband like a cornered animal. This man promised me his faithfulness in front of a priest less than an hour ago. I wasn’t na?ve enough to believe he’d ever take this marriage seriously, but he didn’t have to rub his affairs in my face.

“She really doesn’t like you if she goes around buying lingerie for your wife.” My voice barely trembled.

“She just knows what’s best for her. Maybe you could learn a thing or two from her.”

I tucked my hands under my thighs to keep from trying to strangle him. “Tell her to send me the syllabus. I’m especially interested in How to Tame the ManWhore 101.” I offered him a sweet smile, folding my arms over my laced-covered chest.

Just then, the limo came to a halt and the driver rushed to help us out of the back and onto the steps of the eighteenth-century landmark where the wedding reception was taking place. Troy got out first, offering me his hand. I didn’t move, ignoring his gesture.

“Remember, play nice.” He kept his palm open, yet uninviting.

“Whatever. Fine,” I muttered slapping my hand into his. We walked and waved, smiling to our guests through plastic grins.

“But I like your fight,” he said softly through our make-believe joy as we made our way, arms linked, like the two happy lovers that we weren’t. “Can’t wait for you to show me some of it in my bed.”



SPARROW



I SHOULD HAVe known he was a man of his word.

But he should have known that on top of hating his guts, I was also a virgin.

A virgin, despite my best efforts.

Contrary to what anyone might think, I wasn’t especially keen on saving my virginity for that special someone. I’d grown up in a rough neighborhood, among people who didn’t buy into fairytales. Prince Charming was about as feasible as Santa Claus to me, if not less. There was not one romantic bone in my scrawny body.

No, my cliché virginity was due to the fact that I just hadn’t met anyone who wanted to share more than a few kisses and the occasional grope with me. I was notorious for my bad luck with the opposite sex. True, I wasn’t particularly striking or sexy, but I wasn’t a hag either. Yet somehow, guys always kept their distance from me.

At school.

At work.

And especially in and around South Boston.

So I’d quietly carried the burden of my virginity, hoping I’d find a man who’d be sweet enough to guide me through the dos and don’ts of lovemaking.

I had a feeling Troy Brennan, with his physical size, strength and brutal way of living, was not the best tour guide for a beginner like me. If there was one ray of light in my grim situation, it would have been my hope that Troy was too busy messing around with half of Boston to notice I had a pair of boobs and an ass, too.

But he did. He noticed.

Right after we got back from our wedding celebration, to be exact.

We arrived back at his glitzy penthouse in Back Bay, thoroughly drunk and understandably flushed.

Brennan walked into his lavish bedroom and started taking off his clothes silently, folding them in a neat pile on a sleek black bureau near the huge king-size bed. He stripped down to his briefs, giving me a full view of his muscled body. All male, not an Abercrombie & Fitch-ad type of guy, but a real, hairy, big, demanding one.

Furious and frightened, I walked swiftly into the master bathroom, shutting the door behind me with a loud bang and locking it for good measure.

“Don’t be long,” he instructed from the bedroom.

I ignored him, took a seat on the edge of his giant Jacuzzi and, regulating my breathing, plucked out the hairpins that dug into my skull one by one. I threw them into the sink with a blissful plink. Then I tackled the impossible dress, struggling to reach the laces in the back and shimmying until I finally managed to crawl out of the corset more fitting for a Barbie doll.

I opened drawers and cabinets. Stalling, stalling, stalling. After all, he was drunk. Maybe he’d fall asleep, pass out…or throw up and choke on his puke. Maybe I had nothing to worry about.

After forty minutes, I tiptoed back to the bedroom wearing a pair of socks and my old PJ’s—gray sleep shorts and a white cotton tee—and crawled onto the far edge of the immense bed. I wanted to curl into myself and disappear between his sheets as far away from Brennan as I could manage.

Not breathing, barely moving, I peeked sideways to check to see if he was safely asleep.