By His Vow: A Billionaire Arranged Marriage Romance

“Look out, it’s a big one,” I say in the worst Australian accent imaginable as I heave a huge and heavy box from the back of the pile.

After Tatum’s…emotional moment, shall we say, in the bedroom, I haven’t given her a second to get lost in her head.

I get it. I really fucking do.

What we’ve found here together is fucking terrifying. But things could be so much worse. I am married to this incredibly sexy woman who challenges me as much as she makes me laugh. Not to mention that our chemistry is off-the-charts hot. I’ve never experienced anything like it before. Sure, I’ve had hot sex, but nothing—and I literally mean nothing—compares to her.

Is it a problem? For right now, no. It’s fucking not. But in twelve months’ time, it very much could be.

But that’s twelve months away. Why can’t we just enjoy what we have right now? Anything could happen in that time. A year ago, we certainly never would have predicted that we’d be where we are now, that’s for sure.

Everything happens for a reason, right? That’s what everyone says.

Maybe Tatum and I are meant to learn something from this whole experience. Maybe it’s going to teach us lessons that we’re going to need for the rest of our lives, and we’ll be able to always look back on our time together fondly.

“You’re an idiot.” She laughs as I place it in front of her.

The living room is a disaster. After ignoring the gifts for a week, we’re finally working our way through the obscene pile.

I mean seriously, who in their right mind actually thinks we need any of this stuff?

Do either of us look like a Lazy Susan kind of person? We only invited those closest to us; surely, they’re aware that we’ve both lived on our own for a few years? We don’t need new sets of glasses or a lace-edged fucking tablecloth. I mean, come on, it’s been a long time since nineteen-seventy-freaking-five. The only people who still have lace-edged tablecloths also still have vases of bad fake flowers and those fucking frilly lace things underneath them. Baby tablecloths, if you will.

“You mean a doily?” Tatum asks through peals of laughter as I explain my thoughts about some of the hideous gifts we’ve received.

Honestly, I thought the people who attended our wedding actually liked us. Clearly, I was very wrong and I shall be reconsidering any future gifts I may send their way.

“Yes. No. What a fucking stupid name is that?” I ask, falling to my knees in front of what I’m sure is going to be another ugly gift.

Sure, I can be an asshole. I’m more than aware of that. But is this everyone’s way of letting me know that they really don’t like me? By filling my apartment with shit I don’t want?

Tatum shrugs. “Aunt Lena used to crochet them. She tried teaching me once.”

I drag my hand down my face. “Of course she did,” I mutter, totally unsurprised.

“What?” Tatum laughs.

“Nothing. I just can’t picture you wielding a knitting needle.”

Her brow lifts.

“What?”

“A knitting needle? To crochet?”

“I dunno. It’s not like I’ve ever sat down to do either.”

“Maybe not, but you do know you don’t paint with a pencil, right?”

“Fine. It’s fine. Laugh it up.”

She shakes her head, trying to hold her amusement in. “I just thought the great Kingston Callahan knew everything.”

“Everything that’s important to life. Knitting and crocheting aren’t a part of that.”

“Well, maybe they should be,” she teases. “I can picture us now…” she says, waving her hand out as if the image is appearing like magic before her. “At Christmas, wearing matching Mr. and Mrs. sweaters knitted by none other than you.”

I scoff. “Laugh all you like; I bet I’d be a kickass knitter.”

“Of course you would, Mr. Everything I Touch Turns To Gold.”

“That’s not true and you know it.”

“Do I?” she deadpans.

“Yep, I touched you a lot earlier and you didn’t turn to gold. In fact…” I say, crawling closer to her. “You melted.”

Planting my hands on either side of her hips, I get right up in her face, forcing her to lean back to escape me.

“King,” she warns breathlessly.

“What, baby?” My eyes alternate between looking into hers and down at her tempting lips.

Reaching out, I wrap my hand around the back of her head before lowering her to the floor and fully crawling over her.

Claws tap on the wood flooring and I groan.

“Not now, Queen Fluffpuff,” I complain when the damn cat stalks over like she owns the place.

“Is it a wonder she doesn’t like you? Her name is⁠—”

The angry hiss the cat emits cuts off Tatum’s words.

“Aw, baby girl. It’s okay. Kingston isn’t going to hurt me,” she coos before reaching out and tickling the thing’s chin.

“Seriously?” I ask, still looming over her with much filthier intentions than watching her play with her cat.

“Be nice to her and she’ll treat you with respect.”

“Or we could lock her in one of the guest rooms while we get busy.”

She glares at me.This text is property of Nô/velD/rama.Org.

“Be a good kitty, Fluffpuff, and back off while I take advantage of your owner.”

Tatum squeals and thrashes beneath me as I tuck my face into the crook of her neck and suck on her sweet skin.

Everything is fine for about fifteen seconds, but then I feel it.

Four little feet land on my back before eighteen very sharp claws pierce my back.

“Oh, you little shit,” I bark before jumping to my feet and attempting to shake her off me.

“King stop,” Tatum cries as she rushes toward us, no doubt to rescue the cat.

I’m the one bleeding here.

“Okay, Griz. You got him good, girl,” she soothes. “Stand down, yeah?”

It takes a few seconds of sweet-talking the feral creature but finally, she manages to detach her from my back.

“Fuck, that hurts.”

“You shouldn’t have taunted her.”

“I didn’t,” I argue, knowing full well it’s a lie. “Can we lock her in the guest room now?”

“No. You’re just going to need to learn to get along with her.”

Reaching behind my head, I tug my t-shirt from my body and stare at the back in horror.

“Fucking cannibal,” I mutter, shooting the cat a death stare, which she quite happily returns. I’m pretty sure she snarls, too.

“She’s trying to protect me,” Tatum argues.

I look between the two of them. One I want to fuck, one I want to…probably best I don’t go there, even in my head.

“Look,” I say, taking a step forward. Tatum’s brows pinch as she waits for what I have to say, but before another word leaves my lips, I drop my attention to the cat. “Me and you, Fluff. We’ve got to put up with each other for the next year. I know it’s not ideal, but it is what it is. Do you think we can come to some kind of agreement to allow me to fuck your owner whenever and wherever I want without risking bodily harm?”

Tatum’s body trembles with amusement, and when I glance up, I find that she’s biting on the inside of her lip to stop from laughing.

“I’ll buy you any treats you want. Salmon? Sardines?”

“Doritos,” Tatum says.

“W-what?” I stutter.

“Buy her too much fish and you’ll likely find it stuffed down the couch to rot.”

My eyes widen.

What the fuck is wrong with this cat?

“Doritos?” I repeat, more than happy to buy the thing chips if it means I get one extra one-on-one time with Tatum. “Any flavor?” I ask, secretly thinking about giving her the hot ones.

Her litter tray is in your bathroom. Don’t do it.

“Cheesy ones.”

“Okay. I can do that,” I agree before looking down at the cat again. “Do we have a deal? Let me have access to Tatum and I’ll buy you all the Doritos you can eat?”

She continues glaring, but I swear I see a chink in her armor.

“Fantastic. Great doing business with you.” I look back up, focusing on Tatum. “Now, where were we?” I ask, gripping the back of her neck and pressing my forehead against hers.

“We were going to find out what was in that box,” she says, ignoring what she can clearly see in my eyes.

“Yeah,” I muse. “Exactly what I was just thinking about too.”

“Come on, Griz. If you’re lucky, it might be the world’s most over-the-top cat toy.”

“I’m not having one of those ugly scratching post things in my home,” I warn.

“And yet, you have this beautiful tablecloth,” Tatum says, pointing to the offending thing on the top of the pile of open gifts.

“Hmm.”

I rip into the paper as Tatum lowers herself and Griz to the couch, watching with interest when all I reveal is a cardboard box.

Reaching for the scissors, I open it and pull the contents free.

“Wow,” Tatum breathes. “That’s…I’m speechless.”

“What even is it?” I ask, taking a step back.

“A piece of modern art, I guess?”

“It looks like a lump of wood on a stand,” I point out.

Tatum tilts her head to the side. “That’s because it is.”

Reaching for the abandoned gift paper, I search for a tag to discover who thought that buying us this monstrosity was a good idea.

“There isn’t a tag.”

“I guess that saves us writing a fake thank-you note.”

“It has to be someone who knows the truth,” I muse. “Probably Kian. It’s the sort of shit he’d pull.”

“I’m sure it would look wonderful in his apartment. Should we deliver it ourselves?” Tatum laughs.

Raking my hand through my hair, I stare down at the mess.

“This is a disaster.”

“Grab the one from Lori. She will have got us something decent,” Tatum reasons.

“You think so?”

She thinks for a moment before shrugging one shoulder, her confidence draining.

“Here, you can do the honors,” I say, passing her the box.

Setting Griz aside, she rips into it.

The second she opens the box, her brow furrows in confusion before the most incredible transformation happens.

Happiness washes through her expression before her lips curl up and a loud laugh erupts.

“Oh my god,” she cries, tears filling her eyes.

“What? What is it?”

“I-it’s…for you,” she stutters, barely able to contain herself enough to speak.

“Me?” I ask, moving closer and taking the box when she holds it out, now wiping tears from her cheeks.

Ripping my eyes from her, I peer in the box.

“What the actual fuck?” I bark, staring down at a…at a strap-on penis?

“Don’t you remember?” Tatum roars, now clutching her stomach as she laughs. “You like it dry.”

The memory of the night in the Italian restaurant slams into me, although I remember less detail about what happened in the actual restaurant and more of what happened in the bathroom.

“You’re not using that,” I state, keeping my cool.

“We’ll see. You know, they say that it’s good for the soul to give up control every now and then. Great stress relief.”

“I’m sure they do,” I say, throwing the box to the pile of other shit that needs to leave my apartment and stalking into the kitchen for a drink. A strong fucking drink.