I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis
Chapter 124 - 125 Ashton’s POV: Clarity

Chapter 124: Chapter 125 Ashton’s POV: Clarity

Ashton’s pulse surged, his body burning with an intensity that made him want to tear off his shirt, shred his coat, and set fire to his trousers.

The source of the heat was currently twined around him like a vine, rubbing against him like a cat marking its territory.

After she’d kissed him—long, hard, like she was reclaiming all the oxygen he’d stolen from her earlier—she’d hung to him like a tree sloth.

He’d held her there, standing.

They stayed like that until she was beginning to nod off.

Gently, he tried to pry her hand from his neck.

‘Come on, you need sleep,’ he murmured, voice rough.

‘No...’ she protested, her grip tightening on him. ‘Clothes. Off.’

‘You want me to take off your clothes? Change you into pyjamas?’ He was dying to oblige.

‘No. You. Clothes. Off.’

‘Mira—’

‘Off.’ She began demonstrating, as though his hesitation was due to a lack of understanding.

Ashton sighed as she popped off the top two buttons of her silk blouse.

‘At least this time it’s your own clothes,’ he muttered. Not that that made it any better.

He leaned forward, still holding her, until her back met the mattress.

She locked both legs around him. ‘Your turn.’

‘You want me to take off my clothes?’

‘Mh-hmm.’

‘Why?’

‘Hot.’

‘I’m not feeling hot,’ he lied.

‘Me. Hot.’

‘I can help you change—’

To his disappointment, she let go, then immediately began rolling across the bed. ‘Hot.’

She kicked off the blanket, then the pillows, then the bolster.

She attacked the sheets next.

‘Mira.’ Ashton eyed the bathroom.

Was she up for a shower? Highly doubtful.

She rolled and rolled, nearly launching herself right off the bed until he caught her mid-flop.

She blinked up at him, then knelt, arms wrapping around his midsection. ‘Don’t go.’

Her voice cracked with need.

She took his hand and guided it to her collarbone.

The heat of her skin lit a spark in his palm.

Ashton hesitated, his fingers lingering, but his restraint held.

Barely.

He wouldn’t go lower. Even though every nerve screamed for it.

He watched colour bloom along her skin, spreading from her neck.

Then she tugged at him again, hard, and they tumbled onto the bed together, him landing on top of her.

Her mouth was parted, warm, ready.

She writhed beneath him, flushed, breath shallow, the pulse at her throat thudding wildly.

His restraint snapped.

He kissed her. Deeply. Hungrily. Repeatedly.

Her thighs locked around his hips. Her nails scraped the back of his neck. She tasted like wine.

He felt her heartbeat everywhere.

He kissed and kissed and kissed. Only stopped until her voice broke against his ear.

Breathless, she clung to him. Sweat dampened her collarbone. Her eyes fluttered shut, skin burning under his.

He braced both hands on the mattress, hovering just far enough not to touch her.

‘Is that what you wanted?’

‘Yes.’ She opened her arms for him. ‘More.’

‘Do you want me to stay?’

‘Yes.’

‘To spend the night?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you sober right now?’

‘Yes.’ Her eyes were closed.

His pulse throbbed harder.

Still, he didn’t move.

‘Do you know who I am?’

No response.

He stared at her face. ‘Mira. Do you know who I am?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s my name?’

‘Ash.’

‘Ash what?’

‘Ash... Ayesha.’

Ashton breathed in, exhaled. ‘What’s your name?’

‘What’s what?’ She hadn’t stopped moving.

She’d already yanked off his coat and now attacked his shirt.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t a button-down.

Just a plain white tee.

She grabbed a fistful of fabric and attempted to rip it in two.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked again.

She paused. Then resumed.

‘What’s your name?’

A beat. Then: ‘... I don’t know.’

The heat in his chest turned to ice.

He could’ve gone ahead.

He could’ve taken what she was offering and let her wake up tomorrow thinking it had all been her idea.

But he didn’t.

He wasn’t going to take a single fucking risk with her.

He wanted her awake. Fully conscious. Wanting him with clarity. Saying his name with that sharp tongue and those clever, filthy lips.

He exhaled and pushed himself up.

His arms ached from holding himself back.

His skin was burning where hers had touched it.

He grabbed the duvet off the floor and draped it over her, leaving only her face exposed.

She mumbled something, trying to roll over.

He tucked the blanket under her shoulders. Then her sides. Then under her legs. Like she was a parcel he was wrapping for safekeeping.

She stilled.

Her breathing deepened.

Ashton waited, watching her face.

When she started to drift, her lashes resting against her cheeks, he finally loosened his hold.

He stood.

Her phone rang from inside her handbag.

He paused, then pulled it out.

No name. Just a number he didn’t recognise.

He muted it.

The screen went dark.

Three seconds later, it lit up again. Same number.

Once could be a mistake. Twice meant someone needed something.

He looked over at Mirabelle. She was curled up under the duvet. One arm had slipped out, fingers twitching slightly against the pillow.

Ashton took the phone and stepped out of the bedroom, the door closing silently behind him.

The third call came.

He answered.

‘Mirabelle! Finally. I’ve been trying to reach you—It’s Rhys!’

As soon as Ashton heard the voice, his jaw clenched.

‘You blocked my old number,’ Rhys went on, loud and breathless. ‘This is a new one. I didn’t finish what I needed to—’

‘Then say it to me,’ Ashton cut in.

Silence.

Then: ‘Ashton Laurent?’

Rhys’s tone had darkened, strained, furious. ‘Why do you have Mirabelle’s phone?’

‘Because she’s my wife. Problem?’

Rhys swore. ‘Put her on. Now.’

Ashton leaned back against the hallway wall. ‘She’s sleeping. She’s tired. Whatever you want to say, say it to me. I’ll pass it on.’

Another long pause. Then: ‘She’s sleeping? In your house?’

Ashton chuckled. ‘She’s my wife. Whose house should she be in?’

He added, lying easily: ‘She’s in our bed right now.’

He should’ve hung up the moment he heard Rhys’s voice.

Normally, he would have.

Tonight, he wanted to hear the bastard crack.

He glanced down at the strain in his trousers.

There was a faint clicking on the line—Rhys, gnashing his teeth.

‘So?’ he asked again. ‘What’s so urgent you had to ring my wife in the middle of the night?’

‘I’m not talking to you,’ Rhys snapped. ‘I want to see her. In person. Can you tell her that?’

‘Sure.’

Ashton ended the call, deleted the record, and blocked the number.

He returned to the bedroom and set the phone gently on the nightstand.

Mirabelle hadn’t stirred. One cheek was still flushed from the alcohol.

He stood there longer than he meant to.

Then turned away.

He headed downstairs to the gym.

His body was coiled tight and had nowhere to unload it.

He messaged Dominic.

[Rhys Granger’s got too much time on his hands. Give Granger Development some problems to solve.]

He had pushed for the Rhys-Catherine wedding, assuming the man would shut up and behave once married to the woman he’d betrayed Mirabelle for.

But he hadn’t accounted for Jace. Or the size of Catherine’s lie. Or the fallout.

Now this.

Rhys was sniffing around again.

Ashton wouldn’t allow it.

He stayed in the gym for half an hour, hammering the punching bag until his knuckles throbbed.

Then he took a freezing shower.