Chapter 19 (Undiscovered Fireceness)
Chapter 19 (Undiscovered Fireceness)
"True, Grayson, true. I am your fake wife and I'm supposed to hide even my real name from you. So, be thankful that you got to know my real name because that is the only real thing you'll know about me." She patted his knee and was about to bend her head back to the desk when Grayson suddenly pulled her onto his lap, locking his arms around her.
"Grayson –"
"Shh... moan," he whispered.
Callie tried to get up but his hand pinned her, grounding her against his hips.
"Moan or she will come on here and have some baby-making chat with you," He whispered into her ear as his mother's familiar footsteps got closer.
Callie froze on Grayson’s lap, every muscle rigid. The sheer audacity of the move, the unexpected closeness of his body, and the sound of footsteps approaching the door sent a jolt of panic and adrenaline through her.
"Let go first," She bit out.
"Shh... quiet... just moan, Callie,"
His breath against her ear was warm, and the low command was instantly obeyed, not out of desire, but out of sheer, blinding necessity.
A small, high-pitched sound escaped her throat, a choked whimper that could easily be mistaken for a gasp of pleasure. She kept her eyes squeezed shut, her hands braced on his chest to push away, yet also subtly to anchor herself.
'He’s going to think I’m enjoying this. I am going to murder him,' she thought fiercely.
The footsteps paused right outside the door. Callie’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
Grayson leaned his head down, resting his chin on her shoulder. The weight was grounding, yet utterly terrifying. He tightened his hold, his grip non-negotiable.
“Louder, wife,” he murmured, his voice now a little louder. “You’re supposed to be celebrating our honeymoon night,” he whispered.
Callie let out a slightly louder sound, a strained, almost theatrical moan, like a balloon slowly deflating. “Ahh... yes...Grayson, don't...stop,” she managed to whimper softly, making the words sound like a sensual plea.
There was a slight shuffling sound outside, and then, slowly, the footsteps receded down the hall.
Callie immediately shoved at his chest, her eyes snapping open and burning with fury.
“Get your hands off me, you absolute pig!” she hissed, scrambling off his lap. She landed back on her chair with a thud, pulling the chair back a foot for good measure. She rubbed her arms, feeling violated by the brief, forced intimacy.
Grayson remained seated in the other chair, his expression perfectly calm, a slight smirk playing on his lips. He looked entirely unbothered, as if pulling a stranger onto his lap and demanding a moan was an ordinary Tuesday evening activity. Yet, when Callie had moaned his name, he felt his pulse racing as he imagined how it would be if she meant it.
He cleared his throat and glanced at the door.
"My mother was outside, Callie,” he said simply, folding his arms. “She’s the type to check. If she had heard you refusing to wear the nightdress or insisting on sleeping in a chair, she would have marched right in and given us a very awkward lecture on consummating our marriage. She would have wanted to know why you were not in the bed, and our little act would have ended right there.”
Callie felt her shoulders slump, the fury slowly draining away, replaced by a bitter resignation. He was right. And that only made her angrier.
“You didn’t have to grab me like that, Grayson. You could have told me to sit next to you. You didn’t have to… demand I moan,” she stated, her voice shaking slightly despite her best efforts to control it. “I am not your toy, and this is not your excuse to treat me like one.”
Grayson stared at her, taking in the real anger in her face, "Girls would kill to be in your position." He stated calmly.
"Excuse you?" Callie asked very slowly, her eyes flashing with unrestrained hatred and rage.
Grayson instantly realized he’d stepped on a landmine.
Callie rose slowly from her chair, her posture straightening inch by inch like a fuse tightening before the explosion. Her voice, when it came, was soft—too soft.
“Say that again,” she murmured, “so I can be completely sure I heard you correctly.”
Grayson’s jaw flexed. “I said girls would—”
“—kill to be in my position?” she cut in, one eyebrow lifting with deadly precision. “In the position of being financially cornered, married against my will, shoved onto a man's lap like a prop, and told to moan on command? Really, Grayson? Is that your idea of a desirable fantasy?”
He opened his mouth, but she stepped forward—quickly, unexpectedly—making him lean back slightly.
“You think because you’re rich,” she whispered, “and powerful, and handsome, and women crawl over each other to get a glimpse of you… that I should feel lucky?”
Her laugh was humorless. “Let me make something perfectly clear. I am not every other woman you’ve ever met. I don’t want your money. I don’t want your fame. I don’t want your name.”
Her gaze swept him over like a blade.
“And after tonight, I’m sure as hell not interested in your ego.”
Grayson’s eyes darkened—annoyance, defensiveness, and something else flickered through them.
“You’re being dramatic,” he said quietly, but it sounded weak even to him.
“No,” Callie corrected. “I’m being honest. Something you should try sometime.”
She turned her back on him, marched to the bed, and snatched one of the oversized pillows. She tossed it to the chair with finality.
“That’s my bed for the night. Do not pull me, touch me, or command me again unless our whole deal depends on it. And if you ever tell me what women would ‘kill’ for—”
She glared at him over her shoulder, eyes sharp enough to carve stone.
“—I’ll show you exactly why they’re dead.”
Grayson stared at her, stunned into silence.
He had been insulted before. Challenged. Even disrespected.
But never—never—by someone who made his pulse spike instead of his temper.
He watched her curl into the chair, anger still crackling off her like static.
And for the first time since their fake marriage began…
Grayson Wolfe wondered if he had just met the first woman in his life who could destroy him.