Excerpt of Booze and Bullets by Melanie Munton

Lexi 

My husband—Nico—looked at me with unabashed satisfaction after the priest finished offering his blessings and left the room. “That wasn’t too painful, now, was it?”

That was literally only the third time he’d spoken to me since we met twelve hours before. “Speak for yourself.”

His admittedly beguiling eyes crinkled in the corners. “Aw, come on. I’m sure you could do worse.”

I glared. “I wouldn’t put money on it if I were you.”

His mouth tugged up in a half-grin. “She’s got teeth, does she? Good. It would have been disappointing if you were nothing more than a pretty face.”

My head reared back at his audacity to speak to me that way. No one who knew who my father was would ever dare to. Especially in his own house. But strangely, it didn’t bother me. I wasn’t offended. I’d never once asked or expected anyone to walk on eggshells around me. In fact, all I’d ever wanted was for others to treat me just like everyone else. Not to mince words or hide the truth or handle me with kid gloves. 

So, even though he was being an outright mudak—asshole—at least he was being forthright. 

“What a shame,” I retorted. “That’s all you appear to be.”

He nodded once. “Nice to know you think I’m pretty. It will make everything that follows much more tolerable.”

I narrowed my eyes. “If you think there’s even the slightest possibility of this marriage being consummated in any way, you’re obviously thinking with the wrong head.”

There was a microscopic tick in his eyebrow, as if I’d surprised him, before he schooled his expression back into one of indifference, with a hint of boredom. It looked for a moment like he might have actually been impressed with my bold words.

“Yet the fact that you just mentioned my other head indicates that you’ve already thought about it,” he pointed out. “Possibly even pictured it. Don’t worry, you’re not alone. Many women have succumbed to those same urges.”

My mouth tightened as my nails dug into my palms. How many of those women had slapped him? “Don’t make the mistake of assuming I’m anything like the hoard of women who’ve been desperate enough to sleep with you.” I huffed in dry laughter. “Actually, on second thought, go ahead and think that. It’ll make every time I reject you that much more satisfying.”

His gaze brazenly raked over me in a lazy, head-to-toe perusal. “Trust me, legs. You know nothing of satisfaction. Not until you’ve been in my bed.”

Okay, one, I hated his new nickname for me. But only because it came from his mouth and because he thought of it. Two, men like him drove me mad. Nothing annoyed me more than guys with little man complexes who talked a much bigger game than they’d ever be capable of delivering on. Men who only used their mouths to get women into bed, and not in the way most women would want. 

All talk and no walk. 

Although, Nico certainly didn’t strike me as the type to have a little man complex. Mainly because he was by no means a little man. At five-foot-nine, I was a taller than average woman, and I was wearing heeled boots. For him to tower over me by half a foot put him at six-and-a-half feet, minimum. And he was built like most of the byki—guards—that patrolled my father’s estate. Even through his suit, his pectorals were clearly defined and compact. His arms filled out every inch of his jacket, with no loose material to spare. Same with the way his slacks molded to his thigh muscles. I could see the way they tightened and rippled with every step he took.

Not that I was looking. Not at all. 

I was merely commenting on his tailor’s skills. 

“Trust me, pretty boy,” I snapped. His eyes reflected amusement at my returning the nickname favor. “Your bed is the last place I’ll ever find myself.”

The realization that he thought us having sex was a foregone conclusion just because I’d gotten backed into a corner and pressured into a semi-arranged marriage really grated on my every last nerve. I was on the brink of losing my shit over pushy men who thought they could muscle me around like I was some kind of strategy tactic instead of a real person.

And one of those men was my own father.

Well, adopted father, but he was the closest and only thing I’d ever had to a parent. 

“I’m going to have a hell of a good time proving you wrong,” Nico chortled. “You’ll be amazed by how quickly your ice will melt.”

I shook my head in astonishment. “Are all the women you sleep with usually drunk when you get them into bed? Or are they just that easy? Because I can’t believe anyone would actually fall for your bullshit.”

He chuckled as he straightened his cufflinks. “That’s because the only place you’ve felt my mouth is on your cheek.”

I felt my face flush. But I couldn’t tell if it was from my rising temper or from the fact that I was talking about some very intimate things with a man I didn’t know. Which wasn’t usually my style. Nico was already getting under my skin in the worst way.

“You can stop prattling on about how good you are in bed,” I said. “In my experience, the men who puff out their chests the most do it to make something else look bigger.”

His eyes shot to mine, his jaw clenching. The anger I saw briefly flicker to life was quickly snuffed out. “I’m sorry you have such a piss-poor sexual history,” he murmured, feigning sympathy. “No wonder you’re so prickly. I suppose a string of disappointingly small dicks will do that to a woman. Lucky for you, mine is anything but disappointing.”

Okay, now I knew it was anger that had heat suffusing my cheeks. “How dare you—”

He took an abrupt step closer, shoving his face into mine. “And in my country, men who brag the most are usually the ones who have reason to brag. Think about that while you’re packing your bags, wife.”

With a sharp turn on his Italian loafer, Nico strutted out of my father’s study and never looked back. 

Thus concluded my wedding ceremony.

Pretty sure we just made William Shakespeare roll over in his grave.