Hate Me, Marry Me

He had me pinned against the wall, his fingers skimming over my ass before gripping it, roughly and possessively. His smirk was infuriating, full of that insufferable confidence he always had. “It’s just a marriage for a year,” Zayn murmured, his voice rich with amusement. His grip tightened. “Sex, no feelings. Divorce when it’s done. What’s got you hesitating? Scared you’ll fall in love with me again, or scared I’ll ruin this ass of yours?” I rolled my eyes, even as heat licked up my spine. “Why the hell would I be scared?” I shot back, smirking. “I’ve taken bigger cocks than yours.” His smirk faltered—annoyance? Amusement? I didn’t care. My hand slid between us, gripping the hard length straining against his slacks. His breath hitched, and in return, I gave him a slow, deliberate squeeze. “Sex, huh?” I leaned in, my lips brushing his ear. “Let’s see if you can even satisfy me.” ... Roth never thought he’d see Zayn Sanchez again, not after their brutal breakup, not after he was forced into selling his body just to survive. But fate had other plans. When Zayn, now the heir to the Sanchez Conglomerate, paid a ridiculous sum just to have him for a night, Roth told himself it was just business. One night. No strings. Then his estranged family called, dangling his mother’s belongings as bait. But their true intention was clear—they wanted him to marry Zayn Sanchez, the new richest man in town. Zayn didn’t just want a husband. He wanted an ally, someone to play along while he slowly took over Calloway Industries, Roth’s family’s prized company. In return, he promised Roth half of everything he acquired. No emotions. Just strategy. Just sex. But fucking your ex is never just sex.